


One Hundred Miles an Hour in Reverse

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: Stilesunderstandsthat leaving is hard. He understands because Stiles always understands. Leaving is hard, got it. Check.But late at night, alone in the dark in the quiet with the shadows, alone with his thoughts and his shallow, slightly panicked breathing, he alsounderstandsthat it’s alwaysharderfor the people left behind.--Five years after everything, after everyone is gone, Stiles remains, because someone has to, right? He’s become good at staying, at being ok with staying, because he’s good at what he does and so many people need him here. So, he’s stayed and he does what he’s always done best: he figures things out.He figures things out and he makes lists, lists of spells, lists of magical herbs, lists of people who have left.He also makes lists about himself. Stiles is: the fixer, the writer, the librarian, the keeper of words and memories in Beacon Hills. He’s a healer, a helper and he remembers.He rememberseverything.





	1. Bach for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a pinch hit for the Sterek ReverseBang 2018. I was suffering from some pretty debilitating writer’s block when this opportunity arose. Full disclosure: I hadn’t watched a single episode in its entirety before taking this on, but I’d seen so many gifs and posts grace my Tumblr dash, I had already fallen in love with Stiles and Derek and have now watched the first three seasons. Thank you SO MUCH to Lydia_Martin_trash for her artwork If Derek Hadn't Left that spawned this little monster of a story. This was so much fun and so cathartic, I might tackle another Sterek story in the future, now that my writing mojo is back on track.
> 
> I, like Stiles in this story, am a huge Bach piano freak, and I listened to a helluva lot while I wrote this. If you feel so inclined, check it out. Bach is Everything. Go. Go forth now and listen to the blissful gloriousness that is Bach in any incarnation.

//

_“You just have to press the right keys and the right pedals at the right time and the music plays itself.”  
Johann Sebastian Bach_

 

_I like that you're broken_  
_Broken like me_  
_Maybe that makes me a fool_  
_I like that you're lonely_  
_Lonely like me_  
_I could be lonely with you_

//

Derek is the first to leave.

Stiles knows it’s going to happen so it’s no surprise when it does. The fact that he leaves in the dead of night with no face-to-face goodbyes or scrawled notes or forwarding address, email or otherwise, _is_ surprising, however, and unfortunate and a bit unforgivable for a while, but even through the fog of pain and hurt and betrayal, Stiles understands. Stiles always understands. It’s a big part of what makes Stiles _Stiles_. Or so he’s been told.

So, he understands, but the pain is still undeniable and a little startling in its intensity, catching Stiles off guard, just below his sternum like a rock to the chest. It sits there for months and months, hard and heavy, making it difficult to eat and breathe and sleep and kind of, you know, _live_. He pushes on the spot, sometimes, right there between the breastbone, two fingers, pushing against the pain and anxiety that slowly builds. Sometimes it helps. But like his Great Grandma Gertie used to say, Life fucking goes on, Mieczyslaw, whether you like it or not. It fucking goes on. Well maybe without the swearing parts, but the sentiment remains true and Stiles does his best to live by it.

Life fucking goes on, whether you like it or not.

It goes on around you, its presence a busy, happy, sad, angry, _inevitable_ thing that is impossible to ignore. It just keeps _going_ , even if you’re just a shell of a person, watching from a distance, a spectator on the sidelines, waiting for something, anything to kick you into gear. Some days it’s hard and some days it’s even harder, the waiting. People leave, right? They do it all the time and Stiles gets that, he gets that more than most people, he thinks. It’s a lesson he learned too early in life. People leave and sometimes they come back and sometimes they don’t come back. And that’s life, Stiles.

But it still hurts and the bruises lodge deep beneath the skin and there’s that rock in the sternum and the acid in the back of the throat and the loneliness seeping into the crevices. Yeah, that. Good old loneliness. Stiles prides himself on his Resiliency and Adaptability in the Face of Adversity, but that fucking loneliness will get you every time, something else Gertie was fond of saying, maybe even _with_ the swearing. Change is hard, Mieczyslaw. Change is hard and the Great Unknown is hard and even leaving is hard, because leaving involves both change and the Great Unknown.

Stiles _understands_ that leaving is hard. He understands because Stiles always understands. Leaving is hard, got it. Check.

But late at night, alone in the dark in the quiet with the shadows, alone with his thoughts and his shallow, slightly panicked breathing, he also _understands_ that it’s always fucking _harder_ for the people left behind.

//

There were stories being told in Beacon Hills before, and they’re still being told, after. Stories about the past, about things lost, people lost, the people those people loved and the ones that came even before them. There are stories about all of them, and some have been completed and neatly filed away, but others are unfinished, simply because the ending isn’t yet known.

People talk, because that’s what people do, since the beginning of time. Everyone loves a good story, and god knows this town is full of them. There are the ones spoken about at full volume in the street between boring, daily errands, or at the bar over a beer or two or three, or at the restaurant with the waitresses who think they know it all:

_And then Scott McCall took that beast down with one fell swoop of his claws. How do I know? I saw it! With my own eyes. How do you think I know? Don’t you believe me?_

Or

_I swear to the heavens above she just opened her mouth and started screeching. Thought I’d start bleeding from my ear holes, that’s how loud it was._

And

_Oh, the howling. Do you remember the howling we used to hear around here during full moons? How long has it been now? Four? Five years? It’s like all the wolves have just up and vanished._

But then there are the quieter stories, the ones told in confidence, all hushed whispers at the weekly book club, or at church under the steady rise and fall of the sermon, or between illicit lovers under the sheets, but always _always_ quietly, behind covered mouths and closed doors.

_I hear he rarely leaves his apartment._

_Well I never see him. Do you?_

_He has his groceries_ delivered _. Can you imagine? He’s become a_ hermit.

_His poor father would be so upset._

_Someone should talk to him, see if he’s ok._

_He doesn’t want to talk. He barely makes eyes contact._

_I’ve heard he’s on the drugs._

_He’s not on drugs, silly. He_ sells _them._

_He cured Angus’ gout last week. Had it for years. Now it’s gone._

_Is he a witch doctor? Is it some kind of voodoo?_

_Well, every time I do see him he looks thinner and paler._

_No, he’s just worn out._

_You talk about him like he’s 80 years old. Just because he’s limping doesn’t mean—_

_But how did he get the limp? Does anyone even know?_

_Just rumours. I heard it was—_

_No it was—_

_Nonsense. It’s all psychosomatic. He could stop it if he wanted to. I’m telling you it’s all in his head._

_Well, wouldn’t you be sick in the head if all your friends and family were gone?_

_He hasn’t been the same since his dad left, poor dear._

_He hasn’t been the same since_ everyone _left_.

_Everyone? Or just Derek Hale?_

And these are the stories the people of Beacon Hills trade amongst themselves, back and forth, tattered and worn like baseball cards, some valuable, some worth nothing at all. People think they’re being sly, but Stiles knows. He knows what they think, what they say behind his back.

He knows all the stories.

And he knows which ones are true.

//

True: Stiles is a healer and a helper now, a profession he fell into completely by accident, but one he embraces as best he can, because he knows he’s making a difference, and it’s the least he can do.

Not True: He doesn’t leave his apartment. He does. He just does it mostly at night, in the dark, sliding from the front door of his shop to his small blue car and gliding quietly in the direction he needs to go. To the woods to gather plants. To the cemetery to tend to two gravesites. Sometimes he just drives for hours until he’s too tired to keep going. Sometimes he pulls to the side of the road and climbs into the backseat and curls up and sleeps, when he’s especially worn out.

True: Stiles is a story teller, record keeper, the writer of things past, cataloguing and itemizing memories for anyone who might care to know one day in the future. He doesn’t consider himself a writer, really, but he writes anyway. He writes out recipes and formulas and prescriptions and he writes emails, long and convoluted, or short and sharp and to the point. He writes stories that he remembers of the past, of the people he knew and who knew him, because he’s the only one left who can, and it’s the least he can do.

Kinda True: He sells drugs. He actually researches remedies, magical and otherwise, for people who are at their wit’s end, people whose doctors have dismissed them, people who are overlooked, lost, abandoned. And if some of those people are _supernatural_ beings, and if Stiles researches remedies and gathers plants and herbs from the woods and from his own personal garden, and he makes potions for people to take in order to heal, in exchange for payment for his live/work apartment rent situation, then yeah. He sells drugs.

Not True: He is not _on_ drugs, though he’s considered it. Something for sleep, maybe. Something for the pain in his heart. Something for the pain in his leg that never goes away. Nothing he’s tried has worked yet, so he’s kind of given up. Sometimes he has beer. 

True: He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t make eye contact, only because he rarely ventures out to places during the daylight where he might actually see people, and as for the hermit thing? He has no clue what his dad might think. He tries to not think about his dad in general or what his dad might think about anything these days.

True, But For a Good Reason: He’s thinner than he should be and pale, but he’s always been on the pale side. It tends to happen when one rarely leaves the house during the day. To avoid talking to people.

True: He has his groceries delivered, most of the time. See above.

Not True: He is not a witch. There is no voodoo involved. He’s attempted many different spells over the years, but voodoo? Really? Where do people get this stuff from?

Blatantly, Unequivocally, Incredibly, Unbelievably, Completely and Utterly False: The limp is not psychosomatic. No, he hasn’t been the same since everyone left, but it has absolutely nothing nada nil to do with one Derek Fucking Hale.

Absolutely _nothing_.

For some reason, of all the untruths whispered about him, this is the one that makes him the angriest.

//

On one shelf in his shop, kitty corner to the rows of supplies, there is a row of journals, different colours, different sizes, each with a different name on the front, each filled with stories/facts/random tidbits about that particular person. There’s one for Scott, one for Allison, Lydia and Jackson and Kira and Malia and Liam. Deaton is there, and Cora. There’s one for Derek, but Stiles hasn’t been able to touch that one for a while, and there’s one he hasn’t been able to touch at all. It’s actually blank, and even thinking about it now makes Stiles’ heart race. And then there’s one for himself. There’s only a few pages filled and they’re mostly in bullet points, pencil pushed hard in some places, pages sweat-puckered like he’s lingered over the words for far too long.

At night when he can’t sleep he sometimes comes downstairs to the store when he grinds herbs and makes potions and he stands and stares at the journals, at the names of people he hasn’t spoken to in any meaningful way for so long. Sometimes he takes out his own journal and tries to make an entry, but his story is truncated, incomplete, and if he’s being honest, it’s a life being only tolerated. Stiles the Storyteller is present in life but only just barely participating.

//

_From the Stiles Stilinksi Journal (light blue, 160 pages, spiral bound, 9.5 inches by 5.9 inches)._

• Stiles owns the town’s only bookstore/library that consists solely of magical books and papers and journals

• He has become quite adept at magical herb identification and potion brewing and helps clients around the world with various magical ailments

• He enjoys his work but he doesn’t enjoy talking to people

• He likes the Internet and emailing and online ordering

• A lot

• Townspeople call him a hermit behind his back

• He’s ok with that

• He lives in the small apartment above the bookstore/library

• He lives alone

• He’s also ok with that

• He still has brown hair and brown eyes but sometimes when he bothers to look in the mirror he doesn’t recognize himself at all

• He’s not sure if he’s ok with that

• As of today, he’s 25 years old and he walks with a limp. Sometimes, when the pain is very bad, he requires a cane

• He’s damaged, he thinks beyond repair

• He misses people more than he will ever admit

There’s a pencil line through that last point, so heavy it’s torn the page right through.

//

So, he’s damaged, he knows this, not just physically, but the physical damage is what people see, when they do see him. There’s pity in their eyes, on their faces, and it’s ok, for the most part. He feels pitiful, when he bothers to feel anything at all. It’s sad, he supposes, but he’d rather feel sad than the roiling, boiling rage he knows is simmering just below the surface of his skin. What would it take, he thinks, what small event, what twist of fate, for it all to come pouring out. Sometimes, late at night, he thinks about that and what it would look like.

He runs the store on his own peculiar hours. It’s pretty simple: If he feels like unlocking the door he does, and if not, he doesn’t. Clients mainly contact him by email anyway, and those who live close enough to visit know by now to call ahead to make an appointment. Walk-ins are rare and generally not advisable. Or welcome.

When he’s done taking and making orders for the day, he climbs the stairs to the small apartment above. This is where he lives most of his life, in these four small rooms: kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom. This is where all his worldly belongings are scattered, where his memories are housed, good and bad. This is where he eats and sleeps and relieves himself, however he can.

He doesn’t sleep well, but who could blame him? It’s not just the dreams, either. When he closes his eyes it’s too dark, or it’s not dark enough. He can hear his breathing, his heartbeat, can feel the blood rushing through his veins. He feels everything. He feels nothing. He kicks the blankets to the foot of his bed and twists and turns, searching for comfort. The clock blinks and time passes. It keeps passing.

Finally he pushes the heels of his hands against his eye sockets until they burn and he sees bright spots.

He gets up. He puts the kettle on for tea. While it heats, he moves to the rather antiquated stereo that belonged to his Dad, a sort of combination CD/Radio contraption that sits on his kitchen counter, taking up most of the space. He flips the switch and Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier seeps out, housed on one of the many CDs he burned years ago. He closes his eyes and lets the music soak into his pores, his skin, down to his bones, his heart, his nerves. He breathes a little easier with each measured bar.

The kettle boils. He makes his tea.

He goes outside. He looks at the stars.

He waits.

//

Scott and Malia are the next to leave. The last Stiles heard they were in Belize, but that might not be the case now. When they left they took a little piece of Stiles with them, a bit of skin and sinew, a small wound, something he has yet been able to sew up and heal completely.

He folded in on himself a little bit that day.

Then Lydia leaves. University, she says. But she’ll be back, she says. That was three years ago now. She hasn’t come back.

Then Liam. And Kira and Theo and Jackson. One by one by one they pack their belongings and say their goodbyes and ride off into the sunset. Unless you’re Derek and slink away like a coward in the dead of night. Whatever. They’re all gone and for years their relationships have shrunken, been reduced to occasional phone calls on birthdays and Christmas, text messages from far off lands, emails when there’s a laptop and reliable WIFI to be found.

They carve off bits and pieces of Stiles in the process, carrying parts of him away with them into the dark distance. Stiles imagines those small pieces of him scattered around the globe, tucked into small pockets or bags, sometimes close to the heart and sometimes forgotten for days and weeks.

He folds in on himself some more.

He waits.

//

And then his Dad leaves, taking with him the biggest piece that Stiles has left to give.

John Stilinski dies on an unfairly beautiful October afternoon, his unfairly beautiful heart finally giving out, giving up, moving on. There is no funeral because his Dad expressly announced years ago that funerals were morbid affairs best left to the dead. After Claudia’s funeral he and Stiles both agreed they’d never subject themselves to another one ever again. Instead, weeks after, Stiles takes his Dad’s ashes on a hike, and he walks and walks and walks, grasping at tree limbs when the pain is particularly bad, panting in the deep woods before he reaches his intended spot, the perfect spot. He sits in the near twilight and says goodbye, and lets his Dad go.

He doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried in the two years since.

He sells their family home and takes all the research he’d gathered looking for a cure for an ailing heart and he turns it into a full-time job. He’d tried 16 different potions on his Dad for six months, after the doctors had told him repeatedly there was nothing to be done and all their expensive prescriptions were doing nothing. His heart was failing but Stiles refused to believe it. He spent hours in the woods around the town, gathering herbs and grinding them in the kitchen, filling the house with odours ranging from mildly pleasant to oddly curious to downright noxious.

“What the hell, Stiles?” his Dad would ask. He had an oxygen tank and mask by then and he moved slowly from the living room to the kitchen, watching as Stiles hacked and ground and mixed and melted. If he’d just had a few more weeks he’s convinced he would have found the perfect concoction. He was getting closer, he was sure of it. The last two actually made a difference. His Dad looked happier, breathed easier, his eyes were brighter and his appetite stronger. But, in the end, mortality won and Stiles lost and he had to move on, like his Dad.

When he feels up to it, he joins chat groups online and shares his findings, continues his research, and moves on. And people find him. Word of mouth spreads quickly and his skill and ability reaches an eager audience. He doesn’t mind helping, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. So, he finds a place in town to set up shop with a handy apartment above and, even better, a place for a garden, too.

And life goes on, mostly around him.

And he works and lives and watches everyone he loves leave.

//

_From the Stiles Stilinski Journal_

• Stiles is 25 and walks with a limp

• On the bad days he uses his cane

• And on the very bad days, he doesn’t walk at all

• Stiles suffers from mild to moderate to extreme anxiety. He has found that listening to Bach’s piano pieces to be extremely soothing

• He listens to Bach a lot on his phone and his crappy little mp3 player while he works

• His bed is his best friend, his confidante, his lover, if he’s being honest. On the rare occasions that he does touch himself, when he lets himself feel anything at all, it’s in his bed, alone, in the dark. He comes with a cry muffled by a pillow

That last entry is scratched out so heavily the paper is torn right through.

//

The little bell above the shop door jangles, too happy for this time of morning, and only one person would be walking in unannounced at this time of day.

“Hey boss.”

Stiles looks up from his book. He’s making careful, detailed notations about the latest batch of Mugwort and how it helped and how it didn’t. His fingers are cramped around the pencil. Later, when he can’t sleep tonight, he’ll boot up his laptop and enter all his findings online as well, just as a precaution. You can never be too safe with the things that matter.

“Hey Grace.”

“Hard at it already, huh?” she says. She says this every single time she comes in and every single time Stiles replies, “You know it.”

Grace showed up on the first-year anniversary of his dad’s death. Stiles had just returned from the gravesite where he’d spent an hour tending to the grave, trimming grass, arranging fresh flowers, and not crying. He’d driven home as quickly as possible and slid in the front door without making eye contact with anyone, though he’d felt several pairs of curious eyes on him. He’d been sitting at the shop desk, thinking about nothing in particular when the front door opened and shut, jingling its happy little tune. Stiles looked up, eyes still unfocused, mind a million miles away and there was the girl. She was standing very still, watching him watching her.

“Can I help you?” he finally said. His tongue felt fat and useless. He was also pissed because he’d forgotten to lock the damn door behind him. “I usually only work by appointment, but if it’s urgent—”

“I need a job,” she said.

“Ah,” said Stiles. “Well. As you can see—” he gestured around the small space. “I don’t really need any help—”

“You need _my_ help,” she said. Her voice was calm and low-pitched and she had absolutely no problem interrupting him, clearly.

“Do I?” Stiles eyebrows went up. He wasn’t irritated. Yet.

She nodded. “I’ve seen you around, you know. You definitely need my help.”

Ah. There was the irritation. This is why he didn’t talk to people, generally. Stiles tried hard to remember the last time he was out and about during the day, shopping or walking or anything that could have drawn attention to himself. He tried to figure out if he knew this girl at all.

“Uh,” he said.

“You don’t remember me.” It wasn’t a question and it held no malice. Stiles shook his head. He was about to apologize but then thought fuck it. She was the one who walked in here uninvited.

“I’m Grace,” she said. “Heather’s sister.”

Ah. Stiles swallowed, throat dry and sore. “Heather,” he managed to say.

They stared at each other some more. Stiles felt his heart flutter. Heather had her own journal, slim, but filled with everything he knew about her, ending with her birthday party and offer of sex and her murder by the Darach. Seventeen years of life filtered down into approximately six paragraphs of Stiles’ scrawl.

“It’s ok. It’s been what, eight years,” Grace said. “And I was only 12 when she died. I remember you from the funeral.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say. It felt like a million years ago. It felt like yesterday.

“So you’ve seen me,” he said. “Around.” He kind of knew what was coming.

“At the cemetery.”

Ah. Of course.

“What’s the name of this place, anyway? Does it have a name? Everyone just calls it The Store. Or, The Shop. Or, That Place Where the Quiet Guy Works and Maybe or Maybe Doesn’t Do Drugs.”

“Ha ha,” Stiles said. He was starting to sweat. “Yeah. Any of those work, actually.” He’d never given the store a name because naming it meant it would be easier for people to find it and he was busy enough as it was.

Grace didn’t say anything else and she didn’t look away and she seemed to have absolutely no intention of leaving without getting what she came for.

“I didn’t get into university but I don’t care because it’s a waste of time. My parents have never been the same since Heather died so it’s better that I stick around for them, anyway. All my friends couldn’t wait to get away from here but I’m stuck, for now at least. You know how it goes.”

Stiles knew. He knew very well.

“So, then,” he said at last. “What do you know about calendula officianlis?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she said. She didn’t seem sorry about this. “But I do know how it feels to lose someone you love in this godforsaken town.” She paused. “And I know how it feels to hear people whisper about you when you walk by.”

And that’s how Stiles got an assistant.

//

On Monday he sees Abigail Aster and her daughter Claire. Claire, six, is suffering from pustules all over her hands that have not responded to anything Abigail has tried. Stiles gives Abigail an ointment made of aloe and ashwaghanda and tells her to apply it once a day and to keep Claire away from the edge of the woods where the poison ivy grows. He doesn’t mention the fact that there’s been a Mishepishu sighting where Claire likes to play. The Mishepishu urine is caustic and causes pustules to form. Abigail emails him three days later with photos of Claire’s perfectly clear hands. Stiles says “no problem” and files the photos for posterity.

On Tuesday he gives Mr. Keeler three yellow pills for his dog Growl who has eaten berries from the elder tree, genus Sambucus, in the Mr. Keeler’s backyard. Normally not harmful, but Stiles has it on good authority that there’s a witch residing in the trunk, so it’s better to be careful. On Tuesday, he also instructs Grace to mail out three thick envelopes containing a variety of medications and powders. One to Vancouver, one to Innsbruck and one to Fryeburg, Maine. She also picks up parcels at the post office, including books Stiles has ordered online, plus his groceries for the week. When she realized how much money he was spending on home delivery, she took on the task herself. Despite Stiles’ initial misgivings, she has proven herself invaluable.

//

_From the Journal of Stiles Stilinski_

• The Importance of Bach: When Stiles was a child his mother died. Stiles’ father did his best to keep Stiles upright and safe and sane and that included counselling. Stiles didn’t get much from the counselling sessions except for one major, important excellent piece of information: Bach is Everything. Stiles’ counsellor told Stiles to listen to Bach’s piano pieces when he was upset. Something about the cadence and measure of the music calmed anxiety, rapid heartbeats, blah blah Stiles can’t remember. But his dad did it because he loved his son. And Bach worked. And it has worked ever since.

//

Between Stiles’ bedroom and the bathroom is a small, narrow set of stairs leading up. At the top of the stairs is a trapdoor. He has to balance precariously on the narrow stairs and use his hand and shoulder to shove it open. Then he hauls himself up to the roof of the apartment. There he finds his small, neatly kept garden, about six feet by six feet, elevated, housed in rough brick. There’s also a chair up there, a table, a hose and watering can. Pruning shears. A pile of well-worn books. A ragged awning. It’s perfect. Every night Stiles sits here before bed and drinks his tea and reads his books and tends his garden.

So, Stiles’ life is this: His shop, his research, his writing.

Eating, sleeping occasionally, pain management, gardening.

He moves between his store, his living quarters and the cemetery. He tends his parents’ gravesites. 

He forages in the woods for plants.

He sits on the roof and watches the sky.

He waits.

//

Grace is quiet, which Stiles appreciates. She’s also a quick study, methodical, painstaking and whip smart. She’s also a sneaky little shit.

She’s been working for him for almost a year now and she knows he doesn’t take vacations. She knows this because Stiles never goes anywhere. He barely leaves the store unless he absolutely has to, and that’s usually under cover of night. And yet she still tosses questions at him when things get too settled.

“Hey Stiles,” she says as she chops sage or grinds vervain, never missing a beat. She doesn’t even look up.

“Hey Grace,” Stiles says, bent over a journal, fingers tapping a steady beat to Prelude in C, fed into his left ear through an earbud. 

“You ever think about, I dunno, getting away for a bit?”

“Getting away from what?”

“From here.”

“No, Grace. No I don’t.” Stiles pauses. “Why would I do that?”

“It’s called a vacation. Lots of people do it. I’ve heard it’s good for you even.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. He pretends to consider this. He pretends it’s an actual thing he might actually do at some point in his life. Then he shakes his head with a kind of finality. “Nope. Not for me, thanks.”

“You just.” She pauses. Her chopping and grinding slow but don’t stop entirely, which means she’s actually thinking deeply about what she’s going to say next. “You work really hard, Stiles. And you deserve a break. Isn’t there a convention you could attend? Seminar? A Symposium on North American Moss and How to Use it?”

Stiles nods. “I’m sure there are, Grace, plenty of conventions and seminars and symposiums available out there. You should really look into them. I’d be happy to send you. I have a budget and everything. Learning is growing, after all.”

Grace sighs between her teeth, a long, low whistle, but doesn’t say anything else and Stiles considers the matter dropped. But, sneaky. Two days later Stiles finds pamphlets tossed oh so casually across his desk. Travel to Paris! Boat cruising on the Danube! Hiking the Bruce Trail! There’s also, amazingly enough, information on the upcoming Annual East West Herbal Seminars in the California Redwoods. Glossy, beautiful pamphlets detailing everything he needs to know about getting away. These pamphlets include travel dates and prices and suggestions for accommodations. There are even websites to join for those who have no one to travel with. Travel Buddies. Loners who don’t want to travel alone. He could be paired up with someone, also alone, maybe lonely, and the two of them could head off into the great unknown for a super fun time.

Everything is right there at his fingertips. Everything he needs to _leave_.

Every couple of weeks new pamphlets and brochures magically appear and Stiles always picks up these pamphlets, these thin suggestions outlining a different life. He glances through them, he really does, fingers moist and slightly trembling. Then he puts them away, one on top of another, into the left drawer of his tiny desk. He doesn’t mention them to Grace, ever, and she never asks. They’re like some dirty little secret between the two of them, like he’s maybe an alcoholic or gambler on the sly, has a sex or painkiller addiction and his well-meaning associate is determined to get him help without too much embarrassment for all involved. As if a few weeks away would fix everything wrong in his life.

If only it was that easy.

//

He sits, with a small groan, at his desk, opens his aging laptop and logs into his email. Today there are only 17 directed to the store, small by comparison. Usually he can count on between 25 and 40 requests for books, spells, thoughts, ideas, random guesses. He tries to respond to all of them as quickly as possible. If he knows the answer off the top of his head it’s a good day. If he has to make numerous trips to the library, scour the internet or read through copious old notes, it’s not a bad day, per se, but it’s challenging. Stiles likes a challenge, and he likes figuring things out, but he’s tired. He doesn’t sleep well.

The last email on this particular day is from one lupusmedicus@gmail.com with the subject line: Urgent Help Required!!

Stiles pauses. He knows of Lupus Medicus, a sort of Doctors Without Borders organization, but magical in nature. Healers of the lupine variety travelling around the world assisting with tough cases for supernatural creatures for little to no payment. He’s never received a personal request from them before.

**To: thestore@hotmail.com**  
**From: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
Hello. I got your email address from someone I know and trust. He said you’re well versed in magical ailments and remedies. I’m looking for help with a case of a Gjenganger pinch. Wondering if you have any experience/advice to offer. Thank you.

And that’s it. Stiles sits for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A Gjenganger attack is a rare incident indeed, and fatal if left untreated. In fact, he’s only heard of it once, and he didn’t treat it personally. He knows of a cure, but it’s difficult, complicated, time-consuming. And risky, to both the brewer and the recipient. But, challenging. He likes challenges, usually. He thinks it would be…interesting to at least attempt it.

He replies:

**To: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
**From: thestore@hotmail.com**  
Hi – it’s rare but I do know of the cure. I haven’t brewed the anti-venom myself but I’m willing to try. Will have to do a bit more research before I have a definitive answer for you. Can you give me any more information? Who’s been attacked? How long ago?

**To: thestore@hotmail.com**  
**From: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
Last night.  
Do you have any experience with werewolves?

Stiles laughs out loud and the sound surprises him. It’s so loud in the small space that he jumps and then he laughs even more. Holy shit.

**To: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
**From: thestore@hotmail.com**  
Yes, actually I do. I have my fair share. No worries there. They’re tough as shit and stubborn as hell, so I have a few suggestions to try in the meantime while I figure out the potion. 

He hits send and feels a spark of excitement run up his spine, the first he’s felt in a long time.

He sweeps up the shop, puts everything away and is about to head upstairs when his email pings.

**To: thestore@hotmail.com**  
**From: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
Hi again – thank you for the quick response. I’m in a bit of a panic here. My client isn’t responding to anything I’m trying and I’m afraid he’ll take a turn for the worse before I can figure anything else out. The sooner you could let me know the better. I’m willing to pay whatever it takes for a rush job of course – thank you.

Stiles stands in the middle of his dark store, hands at his sides, teeth chewing his bottom lip. It’s not the money, though it will help, of course. He looks out the side window at the forest in the distance. 

**To: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
**From: thestore@hotmail.com**  
I understand the urgency of course. Unfortunately, what you’re asking for will take at least two weeks to brew, from my understanding, and possibly longer. As I mentioned, I haven’t actually prepared it myself. And then there’s a matter of transportation. The finished product won’t be something that can be shipped by mail. It will have to be delivered by hand and should be administered by someone experienced.

**From: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
Is that a service you provide?

Stiles laughs again, but more bitterly this time.

**From: thestore@hotmail.com**  
No it’s not. Sorry. Someone from your end would have to come pick it up. Not sure where you’re located. I’m in California.

**From: lupusmedicus@gmail.com**  
At the moment I’m in Norway at the site of the attack. I’m going to just go ahead and ask you to start what you need to. I’ll figure out the logistics of picking it up and let you know as soon as possible. How does payment proceed from here?

**From: thestore@hotmail.com**  
Look. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. In the meantime, try administering a draught of Chaparral and Black Pepper twice a day and once in the middle of the night. It should hold off any other infection until I can figure things out here. If you do need either of those ingredients, I can ship them express tomorrow.

Stiles realizes this guy must be desperate at this point. He actually has no idea if he can perform this task, how long it will take, how much money to ask for, how he’s going to get it to him. But his heart is thudding with excitement and his fingers are tingling. He can barely type. He wonders if he should head out now to find the first ingredients now. No. He needs to do research first. More research. He moves to pick up the laptop to bring it upstairs when a new email pops up.

An email from a different address.

**To: thestore@hotmail.com**  
This is my personal email. It might be better if we correspond through here for now. I’d like to keep this particular treatment a little private for the moment. It’s caused a lot of concern amongst local healers because of the volatility of the bite and the unknown factor of the treatment. Again, I appreciate any help and discretion you can provide.

It’s from a sourwolf4ever@gmail.com

For the third time that night, Stiles laughs. This one, however, is sad and brittle and verging on hysterical.

_Sourwolf4ever_.

Oh, his life, his fucking, goddamn life. His knees shake and buckle and he sits suddenly, thigh aching sharply.

Everything, everything, slams to a halt.

//

Derek knows it’s Stiles after the third email. Experience with werewolves. No worries there. Tough as shit and stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Feels it in his fingertips, in his bones. He’d heard rumours over the years about Beacon Hills, even as he’d run and run and tried to avoid them. Rumours of who was there and who had left. He himself had travelled for a solid year with Cora until she’d tired of life on the road, and returned to school in Australia, of all places. Too hot for him, so they’d said their tearful goodbyes and Derek had continued on, falling into his present career completely by accident. He’d found an injured werewolf by the side of the road in Yugoslavia, a young woman called Margo, travelling on her own, attacked by a witch, apparently. Derek had taken her pain, given her some Wild Opium Lettuce he always carried with him, and she’d been so grateful she insisted he come with her to meet her family. Margo’s mother, it turned out, was a powerful healer who encouraged Derek to hone his skills, especially if he was going to keep travelling on his own. She’d given him books and ideas and introductions to other healers around the world. At each new stop he’d meet with someone else, learn their skills and move on. In Germany he met Alfred, who was a medic with Lupus Medicus, an organization Derek had heard about but never investigated. Alfred encouraged him to apply: it seemed ideal, combining his love of travel with his acquired knowledge. He was accepted, and three years later he was one of their best-known and proficient healers. He’d thrown himself into his work like nothing he’d ever done before, determined to succeed at something, anything. And he was good at it. He was excellent.

And then he needed help. A nighttime attack from a fucking Gjengager of all things. Derek had never heard of it, let alone experienced its affects. The victim’s skin was already turning blue at the bite site, necrosis was settling in and death would follow. No one he asked knew what to do. Until a fellow medic sent him the contact information of someone who might.

“He’s located in the United States. That’s all I know, really. Pretty reclusive, but super knowledgeable. Lots of experience with the supernatural. Highly regarded. Excellent success rate. Nothing to lose, right?”

Right. Except the victim’s life. So Derek emailed.

And then he got a response.

And then his neatly packaged, perfectly compartmentalized, terrifically stable, busy, lonely existence fell completely to pieces.

//

Stiles is sitting at his desk the next morning when Grace walks in.

“Hey boss.”

When there’s no response she comes to stand behind him, looks at his laptop screen.

**To: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: Fancy meeting you here**  
I know it’s you Derek. It’s fine. You could have just told me. It’s not like I’d not help you or something. I had no idea you were with Lupus. I’d lost track of you years ago which is fine whatever. This is a challenging case and I’m up for the challenge. I just need more details from you, like I don’t know, honesty or something would be nice.

**To: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: Re: Fancy meeting you here**  
I didn’t know it was you, Stiles. I swear. Not at first, anyway. You have quite the reputation, but no one knows your name. You’re just Miracle Guy or That Guy or You Know, The One Who Figures Everything Out.  
Ps: This is your personal email I’m guessing? Nice.

“Huh,” says Grace. She’s leaning so close Stiles can feel her breath on his cheek. “Who’s Derek?”

“No one.”

“Ok.”

“Someone I used to know. Used to live here. Long time ago. Ages.”

“Ok.”

“He needs help with a Gjengager attack.”

“Oh wow! Those really exist, huh? Cool. Can I help?”

Stiles buries his head in his hands.

**To: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: No one needs to know my name**  
Ha ha. Very funny. I’ve had this email since I was 17. I’ve never thought to change it because I haven’t used it in years. Just to log onto porn sites. Deal with it. And you should talk sourwolf.

**To: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: Re: No one needs to know my name**  
Seriously. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky. I just need help and I’ve heard you’re the best. Can you help? Have you read anything? I’ve heard from numerous sources that you’re the best when it comes to unsolvable mysteries. Not that I’m surprised.

**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: Flattery will get you everywhere**  
Yes I can help. I think I have almost everything I need but like I said, I haven’t done this before. It doesn’t even really have a name. I’m going to call it Pinch Potion. And it’s going to take a few weeks. From what you said your patient isn’t going to last a few weeks.

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: You were always the smartest person I knew**  
Well I took your advice and brewed up some Chaparral I’ve started administering it already and it seems to be helping. Maybe it will be enough until I get the Pinch Potion. It’s a perfect name. If it works you can patent it.

**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: Again with the flattery chill I’m going to help**  
Ok good to hear. Who’s coming to pick it up? When it’s ready I mean. It’s going to take a few weeks to finalize. It won’t be stable or safe to transport any earlier.

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: It’s not flattery if it’s true**  
Me. I’m coming to get it.

Stiles’ head hits the desk with a solid thump.

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: It’s not flattery if it’s true**  
That’s ok, right?

**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: OF COURSE IT’S OK**  
Why wouldn’t it be? Seriously Derek. We’re all grown up now. I think. Everything is fine. And I can’t wait till you see what no one has done with the place. It’s a real party town around here these days – you’d hardly recognize it. You can stay with me if you want. I throw bangers every night! Sleep till noon!

An hour later he gets one final email:

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: Ignoring the sarcasm**  
Good. Thank you. Seriously. Perfect. I’ll be in touch.

Good, thinks Stiles. Good.

_Perfect._

//

Stiles starts gathering ingredients, _Alchemilla mollis_ and _Ruta graveolens_ , Angelica and parsley. He reads and researches and reads some more, writes out formulations until his fingers cramp. It has to be perfect, after all.

It’s for Derek.

//

**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: I may have had a few beers tonight before I started writing this so bear with me**  
Or wolf with me whatever. I’ve been toiling and troubling all day and I’ve done all I can so beer it is. I _was_ being sarcastic about this place but things have changed. They have. And you don’t know I’m guessing so I’ll just fill you in. After you left everyone left. I think you were the anchor in some ways, big bad wolf that you were, alpha or not, you were the glue that held us all in place and after you sneaked away – in the middle of the night I don’t need to add but I will anyway – everyone started realizing they were free to go too. So while it sucked and continues to suck, you kind of set everyone free in a way. I think they’re all happy. I mean they seem happy when I hear from them. Are you happy? You’re like one of the only people I actually want to hear from and never do. Well, until now, at least. Your job sounds pretty cool I have to say. But are you happy? Is it a good life? I guess you can tell me more when you’re actually here but like I said earlier BEER and emails are never a really smart combination for me so I should stop. But I do hope you’re happy Derek. You deserve it.  
PS: And sour wolf was the nickname I gave you. Don’t think I didn’t notice

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: Ok I can’t get drunk and we both know this but there are other methods I used to mellow out**  
I’ll admit I felt bad about “sneaking” away. I didn’t think I was at the time, but yes. I was. For lots of reasons I don’t feel like going into right now but maybe some day. Maybe in person. Maybe not. That might be dangerous now that I think of it. You’re right: recreational imbibement and emailing isn’t a great idea, especially with you. Am I happy? I guess I am. I haven’t thought about it. No one has asked to be honest. But of course that’s something YOU would ask. I like my job. It’s satisfying. I didn’t think I’d like helping as much as I do. It’s hard. It’s painful when I lose a patient but I don’t lose many thankfully. Life for me was very different in Beacon Hills. But I do miss some parts of it. And again, too dangerous to go into now.  
PS: And 1225 is my birthday. Don’t think I didn’t notice.

**From: lacrosselover1225@hotmail.com**  
**Subject: HAHAHA VAIN MUCH?!**  
Why not especially with me? Whysit dangerous? I AM CONFUSION. And now I really have had tooooo much beer. Off to bed with me. Which reminds me if you stay here I only have one bed that’s mine it’s my bed but I’m cool with shareing  
PS: 1225 is also CHRISTMAS which is one of my favorite holidays so JOKE’S ON YOU  
PSS: you used the word dangerous twice and now I’m intriguged

//

It’s the tapping of his fingers on the keys that does it, Stiles thinks later. The quiet around him is the same. The dim lighting. The sound of heartbeat in his ears. That’s all the same. But it’s the tapping of his fingers. Rapid. Words bursting out of him. And not just boring replies to reuests for medical or magical help. He’s bantering with Derek. He’s trading witticisms. There’s sarcasm and heat and good god. There’s flirting. He can feel a heat blooming in his chest and moving up his neck to his cheeks. He hasn’t blushed in years, he realizes. Years. He feels alive. Suddenly no time has passed at all. Suddenly he’s that awkward, spastic, loud, mouthy, funny _kid_ that he was when he first met Derek. Suddenly all the years since have vanished and he’s going in reverse, fast. All the old insecurities, the worries and fears about never being good enough, not having the powers that everyone else had, not having enough being enough are right there, simmering on the surface. But, all the old brashness and not giving a fuck about what he said or did is back, too. He thinks it feels glorious wondrous dangerous.

He thinks he might be in a bit of trouble.

//

**From: sourwolf4ever@gmail.com**  
**Subject: How’s your head?**  
Did you drink water before you slept? Let me know how everything progresses today. I know from experience that it’s nice to have someone interested to bounce ideas off. Nothing much else to say – just wanted to let you know patient is holding steady. Your suggestions have been a lifesaver literally. I can see why you come highly regarded. I mean, I’m not surprised but it’s good that others know about your talents now too.

There’s a number at the bottom of the email. Beside it is typed: _My phone number. Text me. It will be faster. Easier. More convenient I mean. For both of us. Ok. Later Stiles._

//

Stiles bites back a smile and rolls his eyes at no one. He picks up his phone. His head is better now. It’s the end of the day, another long one of chopping and brewing. He has his tea and his books and the stars. He leans back in his chair and takes a photo of the sky. He sends it.

Derek: It’s beautiful. Where are you?

Stiles: On the roof. I have a garden up here. I come up here most nights before bed

Derek: It looks very peaceful

Stiles: What time is it there?

Derek: 5am

Stiles: Why aren’t you sleeping?

Derek: I don’t. I don’t do that a whole lot right now

Stiles: Insomnia?

Derek: Something like that

Stiles: Have you tried Valerian or magnolia?

Derek: Always the healer

Stiles: Can’t help it

Derek: I know. And yes, I have. And a couple other things. Just a phase I hope

Derek: What time do you go to sleep usually?

Stiles: Late. I don’t know. I don’t sleep well either

Derek: Why?

Stiles, before he thinks better of it, types: It’s nothing. Just my leg.

Derek: What’s wrong with it?

Stiles: It hurts sometimes.

Derek: Why?

Stiles: It’s a long story

Derek: ?

Stiles: It’s nothing. I mean. Nothing new. It always hurts.

Derek: What do you mean always?

Stiles: Always as in all the time. It never stops. It is a constant pain that never abates. It’s a long story

Derek: Ok. Maybe you can tell me when I get there. Like in person

Stiles: Maybe

Derek: Was it an accident or something? You always did have a knack for getting into trouble

Stiles heart swoops at that and he feels a mixture of heat and anger. Trouble. He got into fucking trouble saving all their sorry asses on a constant basis.

Stiles: That was a long time ago

Derek: I know

Stiles: Things have changed

Derek: I know

Stiles: I’m not some dumb kid anymore. Just so you know

There’s a long pause between texts. Just before he falls asleep, his phone dings.

Derek: You were never some dumb kid

//

Then it’s quiet for 24 hours. He knows Derek is in transit, even if Derek didn’t exactly say as much. Derek had mentioned something vague about travel plans, that he needed to visit a few patients and he might as well come a bit early for the potion, maybe even help Stiles if he could. Something like that. So, he could very well be on his way, but he could very well not be. Stiles tells his traitorous heart this, every five minutes when it starts to ramp up. He turns Piano Concerto in D Minor up full blast, tinny and distorted at the high volume, but he doesn’t care. It helps, it always does, settles him back into his skin, eases the throbbing in his thigh a bit. Derek is travelling, he thinks, making sure he’s packed the right things and catches the right flights. He’s nervous and twitchy and catches Grace watching him more than once.

“When does he get here?” she asks before she leaves for the day. They’re in the middle of a hot spell. Her short hair is damp with sweat, spiked dark across her forehead and the back of her neck.

Stiles shrugs, pretends he doesn’t know and frankly doesn’t care. “Can’t say for sure. He could be in a plane right now, but we didn’t really discuss the finer details. We kind of left it up in the air. Haha.”

Grace doesn’t crack a smile. “Where is he staying?” she asks as she wipes up her cutting board and knife, puts everything back neatly in place. Methodical and tidy, is Grace.

Stiles heart ratchets up 100-fold. He wipes sweaty palms on his thighs. “I’m not sure yet. Probably a motel? He’ll let me know when he’s figured it out.”

She nods, eyes dark and thoughtful. “Ok,” she says at last. “Try not to worry.”

“Worry,” Stiles says, voice flat but shaky. “Why would I worry, ha ha?”

“Ha ha,” she repeats. “Because that’s what you do.”

The bell jangles behind her and Stiles is alone. He locks the door and turns off the light and climbs the stairs.

He waits.

//

Stiles knows it’s going to happen so it’s no surprise when it does. The knock comes late at night, like he knew it would. If he was being honest with himself, he was half-expecting Derek to just show up in his bedroom, swinging smoothly through the window, shadow dark and quick, just like he used to do all those years ago. Half expecting, half hoping, maybe.

He’s lying in bed, dozing, dreams and images flitting around his head, half-remembered events, voices, faces. His body is in turns hot and cold. He can’t get comfortable. His head aches. His leg aches. Nothing new. And then there’s that knock at the door. He freezes mid-turn from his back to his stomach. He knew it was coming and yet. There’s a pause and then another knock, a bit harder, a bit faster. His phone buzzes on the bedside table and he doesn’t even have to look at it to know who it’s from.

He slips from the bed, He walks down the stairs, gripping the banister with a trembling hand, but his gait is surprisingly steady, despite the throb in his thigh and the ratcheting of his heart in his chest. He stands in the small dark hallway and takes three breaths, in out, in out. In. Out.

He straightens his back and steadies his nerves.

He opens the door and lets the wolf in.

//


	2. A Crash Course in Applied Behaviour Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles _understands_ that leaving is hard. He understands because Stiles always understands. Leaving is hard, got it. Check.
> 
> But late at night, alone in the dark in the quiet with the shadows, alone with his thoughts and his shallow, slightly panicked breathing, he also _understands_ that it’s always _harder_ for the people left behind.

_There's something tragic, but almost pure_  
_Think I could love you, but I'm not sure_  
_There's something wholesome, there's something sweet_  
_Tucked in your eyes that I'd love to meet_  
_These aren't my people_  
_These aren't my friends_

//

It takes Derek more than 11 hours to get from Oslo to the airport outside Beacon Hills, but the 34-minute drive into town is the longest of his life. He sits still and silent in the back of the cab, face turned out the window watching the landscape he’ll never be able to escape slip by, browns and golds, everything burnt dry in the early August drought. He feels a gnawing at his bones, deep beneath his skin as he draws closer and closer to his destination, closer to Stiles.

The name alone starts an ache in his chest, something he’s been terrified to put a name to for close to five years now.

Derek has travelled thousands of miles to hundreds of countries, has talked to countless people in multiple languages, been welcomed with open arms and gifts and tears of gratitude, but for the first time he feels like he’s really coming home. He’s faced monsters and illness, battled scars, sickness, plagues from supernatural creatures, famine and war and risked his life more times than he can count, but at this moment he can honestly say he’s never felt more terrified in his life.

//

He carries one bag, slung over his shoulder. He is pale and thin, thinner than he’s ever been, but still slick and smooth with muscle. He gets dropped off on the outskirts of town because he actually has no idea where he’s going yet. He and Stiles hadn’t talked about accommodations. Stiles hadn’t offered his place and Derek hadn’t asked. He walks, feeling familiar terrain under his boots. It’s hot and has been for a while. He hears cicadas waning in the evening light. The sun is dipping low, but it won’t be full dark for a bit yet. He walks and tries not to think about why he’s here, why he’s really here, and what lies ahead. He can’t think about that yet, so he thinks instead about brown eyes and moles and an upturned nose and sarcasm and exquisitely shaped lips.

No, maybe not that.

He walks and walks and walks, past the burned-out shell of his family home that hasn’t stood in more than five years, razed into the earth and grown over with Angelina Sedum and Catmint and Creeping Thyme now. He can smell everything. When he finally reaches the town proper it’s dark enough that no one will recognize him and that’s exactly fine. He checks Stiles’ address once more, even though he’s had it memorized for days and days. He hefts his backpack higher on his shoulder. He stands at the front door and looks. It’s an unassuming building, for what it represents, for what it contains. There’s nothing magical looking about it at all, but Derek supposes that’s maybe the point. Two storeys, red brick, white window trim, two steps to the front door which is also white, but needs a coat of paint. The second storey has two windows, both curtained and above those, a fence peeking over the top. The garden, Derek realizes suddenly. He feels dizzy, then, his stomach swooping dangerously as he realizes Stiles sent a photo from right there less than a week ago. There is no number and there is no sign, but Derek knows he’s in the right place. He can feel it. He’s nervous. So much more nervous than he thought he’d be. He swallows hard, walks up the steps and knocks.

//

When Derek was a child, maybe five or six, his mother started taking him for weekly walks in the woods. She liked to familiarize him with different herbs and plants that could be used for a variety of healing applications, even back then. One day they came upon a wounded deer in the clearing. It had been shot, illegally, by a hunter, then had run and run and run until it was almost dead from exhaustion and slow blood loss. Derek stood and stared at the panting wounded injured beautiful animal and wept.

“Can we fix it?” he asked, knowing about the healing power within him, not yet fully formed. “Please?”

“No sweetie. Not this time. It’s too far gone. Look at its eyes. You can always tell by its eyes when it’s given up hope. The animal will always let you know when they’re ready to go.”

And Derek looked and saw and wept and never forgot the look of utter abject acceptance of impending death. Of utter loneliness, loss and sadness.

In the years since he’d blocked that image from his memory, forever, he thought.

Until the moment the door swung open and he looked into Stiles’ eyes.

//

Stiles grips the door frame in one hand, fingers tight, the other hand at his side. He looks at Derek in the darkness, at his familiar shape, size, smell of him. He wonders how it came to this, greeting each other on a darkened doorstep after so many miles and so many years.

“Hey stranger,” he says before he does something stupid, like hug him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

For a split-second Stiles think Derek might just turn and walk away, like he’d made some huge mistake travelling 4,000 miles to pick up a potion that’s not even finished yet from someone who’s not even sure he can brew it successfully. He notices the back pack slung over the shoulder, the tired slump of his back, the stale odour of a long day of travel. He hasn’t checked into a hotel yet then. Stiles wonders if he came straight here. Was there a taxi? Did a friend pick him up from the airport? What friend? Stiles blinks slowly, vision blurring suddenly. He’s about to speak again when Derek does move, but he doesn’t move away, he comes closer, much closer. He’s crowding Stiles up in the small doorway and wrapping his arms around him and _hugging_ him. Stiles tries to remember if they ever hugged, ever, even that night, but no. He’d remember this. Derek’s arms are strong and sure and steady and they lock around Stiles’ back, fists pressing in low and hard. He feels, in slow motion, Derek’s scruff push along the side of his own face, scratching skin. He feels the low huff of breath against his neck.

“Stiles,” he hears. Just one word, just his name, nothing else. One more tight squeeze and then Derek is pulling back quickly, almost as if he surprised not only Stiles but himself with the impulsive gesture. Derek _hugging_? It was like seeing Grace crack a smile. Stiles feels his face go hot and then cold. He backs up with jerky steps to make room. He makes an aborted gesture of welcome, but Derek understands and comes inside, his bulk taking up more room than Stiles remembered.

“You made it,” Stiles says, something like that, something weird and stilted, or maybe something like, “How was the flight? Any turbulence? Annoying kids?” Or even, “Do you need a bathroom? You must be tired. You want some tea? I think I have leftover dinner, too.” He sounds like someone’s _auntie_ and he bites down hard on his tongue to force himself to shut the fuck up already.

//

Derek experiences a moment of complete and utter panic. What is he doing here? What was he thinking just showing up here close to midnight with no plans? What’s Stiles supposed to do with him? He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t…plan ahead, I guess. I wasn’t thinking about motels. I wasn’t even sure if—”

He feels the weight of Stiles’ gaze on him, both familiar and unusual at the same time. 

“I have a couch. And a bed,” Stiles says with a small smirk. “I think I mentioned that in a semi-drunken email. You can stay here. It’s no problem, really. Would probably be easier for getting work done. Which we’re starting tomorrow by the way, early.”

“Of course.”

Derek follows him up the stairs, suddenly bone weary, feet barely lifting. Stiles struggles on the stairs. His hand helps his right leg lift up the steps. It’s a slow, halting process. Derek wants to ask but he doesn’t, just follows behind.

The apartment is small and swallowed in shadows. Derek can make out a kitchen table, a couch, a room off to the left, another room to the right. He can hear the rattle of a small window air conditioner. Everything smells close and tired. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted, the travelling and the overwhelming scent of Stiles filling every pore.

“Hmm,” Stiles says. “The couch is. Small. Too small for you.” He laughs. “I don’t have much company. Or, like company at all. Ever.”

“I’m not making you sleep there.” Derek sways where he stands. The couch looks amazing, actually. Or the floor to be honest. He’s not fussy at this point.

“Oh, I know you’re not. I can’t. Hurts my leg too much.” Stiles says this with no apology, no explanation. “It’s the bed for both of us tonight, buddy.”

“I’m — sorry.” Derek drops his backpack. “Tomorrow I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about it right now,” Stiles says, and he sounds tired too. Derek feels a firm hand around his wrist. Feels himself being tugged towards what he guesses is the bedroom. Feels his jacket being slid off, feels his shoes hitting the floor. Then he’s blessedly wonderfully horizontal. He feels the mattress dip slightly beside him, feels Stiles moving back and forth to get comfortable. He feels a hand, light as air, on the side of his face.

Then he feels nothing at all.

//

There’s a moment of pure terror when he opens his eyes. He’s awoken in hundreds of different rooms and locations over the years, but this one throws him. He takes in the small, dim room. Hears the slow steady breathing beside him. Feels one large, warm hand pressed into his back. And then he remembers.

He forces his heartbeat to slow and allows his senses to register. Beneath the dust and slightly mildewed smell of the room, there’s something else caught in his nose. He turns slightly and leans closer and presses his face against the top of Stiles head, his hair soft and tousled.

Stiles smells sour but not like an unwashed or unbathed sour. It’s not dirt. That kind of sour Derek is sadly familiar with. No, this is a sourness of sleepless nights and days too tightly wound. It’s hunger pains and acid reflux and caffeine headaches and an itch just beneath the skin. It’s the tail end of half-remembered bad dreams and grit behind the eyelids and clenched molars. It’s anger and bitterness and deeper, deepest of all, it’s something Derek understands the most: loss and loneliness.

He closes his eyes and sleeps again.

//

“I’ve completed the first part of the potion,” Stiles says later, after they’ve eaten and had coffee. They’re standing close together in Stiles’ cramped storefront, an array of herbs spread in front of them. “I’ve been looking for ways to speed up the process but it seems two weeks is the minimum for maximum effectiveness.” He pauses, eyes darting to Derek’s face. “You must be eager to get it done.”

“Yeah. Yeah I am. The sooner the better,” he says. His voice trails off. “I’ve been researching, too. It needs…the full moon to complete the process, right?”

Stiles nods. “Two weeks, like I said. Everything should be ready to go by then.”

Stiles picks up a small, sharp knife with a worn red handle.

“Your patient must be terrified,” Stiles remarks as he chops. “But the solution is holding everything steady? No infections?”

“Yes.” Derek avoids eyes contact. He washes his hands at the small sink, dries them, pushes up his sleeves. “I mean no. It’s working. Yes it’s working. What can I do to help?”

“Start with the Tansy. Small as you can. We’ll add it to the Vervain later today.” Stiles tilts his head. “Where is he, anyway? It’s a he, isn’t it? I don’t know if you said, actually. Back in Norway? Who’s looking after him?”

“No. He’s. He’s not in Norway anymore.”

“Oh. You were able to transport him? Is he in much pain?”

Derek shakes his head. “It. Comes and goes. He...hasn’t complained much.”

“So he’s with family? I know it’s not contagious or anything, but it can be pretty gruesome. I hope he’s in a hospital somewhere.” His eyes are alight. “Sorry to be a bother but it’s such a rare thing. I’m hoping to write a report at some point.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He sighs and his shoulders slump a bit. “He’s not in a hospital. And he’s not in Norway. And the pain…is manageable for now.”

Stiles stops working completely. He turns, understanding dawning in his face. He crosses his arms.

“So, where is the patient now, Derek?”

There’s a long pause. Derek keeps chopping, intent on his work. He realizes that Stiles is waiting for a response. He turns and looks. Stiles is watching, lips pulled tight.

“Derek?” Stiles crosses his arms. “Who is the medicine for? Who was attacked?”

Derek sucks in a breath. There’s a quirk of his lips. “Me, Stiles. I need it.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles’ voice is flat. He doesn’t look quite at Derek’s face

Derek holds out his left arm, slowly. It’s twitching slightly. He pulls up his long, dark sleeve to reveal his forearm, the crook of his elbow At his wrist, just above the palm of his hand there’s a small dark bruise and around it, distinctive puckering and blue. Necrosis.

“You. You were the one attacked.”

Derek nods. “It’s halted. For now. I used your potion and it’s working.”

“But.”

“It will only hold for so long. My…werewolf powers are strong enough. But I need the solution.”

“Two weeks, Derek. At least. Full moon, remember? That’s the final stage.”

“I know. I knew it was a risk when I contacted you. When I agreed to travel here. I know all the stages, Stiles. I know you’re going to try your best.”

Stiles just stands there staring at him. Derek can’t read the expression on his face. It’s carefully blank but there’s something simmering underneath. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. His eyes are suddenly more alert and alive than Derek has seen since he arrived and there’s a tightness to his jaw that Derek remembers from the old Stiles, like he’s barely holding something back.

“You’ll figure it out,” Derek says at last, quietly.

Stiles snorts but there’s no humour in it. He turns and starts chopping again, viciously. “Yeah. I always do.”

//

Stiles pulls together dinner from his meagre supply of groceries and leads Derek up to the roof. It’s a challenge with plates and cups and the trap door, but they manage. If Stiles dragged an extra chair up here a day or two ago, what of it. Early August has settled in fully, its heat oppressive, but in the evenings, up on the roof, there’s a breeze, at least, and all the shadows.

The eat in silence, the scrape of cutlery on china, mouths too busy chewing to talk. Stiles produces beer and Derek partakes, even if it has no effect on him. Neither of them has much of an appetite and plates are left half finished by the time night has rolled fully in.

“I like it up here,” Derek says later, quietly. “I can see the appeal.”

This please Stiles ridiculously. He wants Derek to like it. Wants him to look at his mess of a life and find something worthwhile.

“I spend a lot of time up here.” Stiles swallows beer. It’s too warm in this heat. “You’re the only one besides me who’s been up here.”

Too late, he realizes his mistake. He feels Derek’s gaze on the side of his face, heavy, considering.

“You have any…friends here?” Derek asks, and his voice is so cautious Stiles can’t help but laugh.

“Did you miss the part about everyone leaving?”

“You could make new friends,” Derek tries again. It’s sweet that he thinks Stiles _wants_ to make new friends.

“I have 10 friends, I’ll have you know,” Stiles says, wiggling his fingers in front of his face. Derek grins and bites his lip. “We’re best friends, actually. We’re all very intimate with each other. They know all about you, too.” Oh Jesus. Shut up, he thinks. Shut the fuck up now.

But Derek doesn’t seem fazed by this slightly drunken admission.

“It’s good to…have people to talk to.” Derek tilts his head back.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have people to talk to.”

“I talk to people.”

“But do you have _friends?_ ” Stiles asks, slightly accusatory.

“Besides my hands?” Derek says and Stiles laughs. He’s looking up at the sky. “I’ve never been too…good at that. I have workmates. Colleagues. Associates. Friends? Never my strong suit.”

“We were friends once, Or, becoming friends,” Stiles says. “I thought we were. Kind of. Slowly. Painfully. Like digging out molars with a rusty butter knife kind of painful.”

“We were.” Derek looks at him. “I trusted you. Even when I told you I didn’t.”

“I trusted you, too, until it all went to hell.” This sounds bitter, more bitter than Derek has ever heard him sound. It doesn’t suit him.

“Stiles—”

“You left,” Stiles says. “You left this town, you left the pack, you left _me_.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but there it was, out in the open. Derek tenses, his entire body going still, muscles bunching under skin, fingers curling against thighs.

“I left,” he says, oh so quietly, “for a lot of reasons. A lot, most of them personal. But I also left because I couldn’t stand the thought of watching _you_ leave. You were going to leave, Stiles. Everyone said so. Everyone said you’d leave _first_. Leave this. Head out and conquer the world.”

Stiles barks out a laugh at that, but it sounds nothing like a laugh. He throws his arms outwards, gesturing at the store, the apartment, the town, his life.

“Well haha! Joke’s on you, pal!”

“Stiles—”

“You kissed me and then you left me and you missed out on all this!” He waves his hands around the vicinity of his body, his mouth, his lips.

“ _Stiles—_ ”

“You kissed me, remember that? Remember? Of course you don’t. But, guess what? I know it wasn’t great or anything, but I am so much better now.” He pauses. “I think.”

“Stiles! Stop. Of course I remember kissing you. Jesus.

Stiles stops short, mouth open comically. “You do?”

“Of course I do. How many people do you think I was kissing back then?”

“Well, aside from the two murderous girlfriends. Three maybe? More?” He pauses. “Bitch, I don’t know your life!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Derek sighs. “Boys, Stiles. I mean boys.” He says this through clenched teeth. “How many boys do you think I was going around kissing in Beacon Hills?”

“Well none, I hope. Jesus, when you say it like that, it sounds pretty gross, actually.”

“Yeah. It does.”

Stiles falls silent. “Did you think it was? Gross?”

“Kissing you? No. No.” He shakes his head, once, twice. He breathes in through his nose and exhales harshly. “ _No_. But it was. It was complicated. You know that. You were so.” He stops.

“Young.” Stiles scoffs. “You can say it.” They had this fight back then. It’s old news. Boring. Predictable.

“You were, though. You’d been through hell but you were still so young.” Derek laughs. “We all were, in spite of everything.”

They sit in silence. Stiles can hear the crickets in the woods, the occasional whoosh of a car passing, Derek breathing. Night sounds.

“Kissing you wasn’t gross either. Just so you know.”

Derek smiles, just a bit. “Thanks.”

Stiles reaches out then, lets his fingers touch Derek’s arm, just lightly, up from his wrist to the crook of his elbow, the skin there so thin, lined with veins. Derek watches, mesmerized. Stiles isn’t drunk, but he isn’t completely sober either. He lets his fingers trail up and down Derek’s bare arm, the one without the hideous necrotizing flesh marking it.

“You know that saying.” Derek says and then stops.

“What saying. I get enough exercise pushing my luck?”

Derek laughs. “No. The one about the best thing happening at the absolutely worst possible time.”

“Oh, _that_ saying.” He finishes his beer, lets the bottle drop to the roof beside him with a clunk. “Is that what we were?” He pushes himself up, stands a little shakily. “Were we the best thing? Were we?”

“Stiles.”

Stiles is moving then, moving with intent, leaning over Derek’s chair, hovering over Derek’s mildly surprised face and then he’s kissing him. He misses at first, his mouth, wet and soft, landing on Derek’s chin, on the soft scruff there, but Derek gets it, knows what he’s going for, and he moves his face to accommodate, turning slightly so the next time their mouths line up properly. Stiles keeps moving, lifting his bad leg with a small groan and straddling Derek, settling on his lap, thighs and groins lining up along with their mouths and they just keep kissing. 

Derek breathes out heavily like he’s on the verge of making a decision and then he commits to it, pulling Stiles close onto his lap and kissing him hard, unrelenting, chair groaning under their combined weight. Stiles slides his hands along Derek’s neck, up into his hair, lightly at first but then pulling a bit. It’s longer than it was, back then, and Stiles finds he likes it. Derek seems to like Stiles pulling on it, if his slightly laboured breathing is any indication. Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ hips, clenching tight, then moving around the top of his jeans to the small of his back and the warm skin there. Stiles moves closer, closer, his mouth pulling and nipping at Derek’s mouth, his lips, his chin, his jaw. When he opens his eyes he watches Derek’s face, eyes closed, head tilted back, mouth responding to Stiles, tongue meeting his.

“You’re right,” Derek says at last, the only sound their breaths mingling in the warm night air.

“About what?”

“The kissing.”

“What about it?”

“You’re so much better now.”

//

There is a bed and it’s small but they fit for sleeping the previous night and now they fit with much less clothing and a lot more moving around.

“This is ok, right?” Stiles says into Derek’s chest as he moves downward, licking at exposed skin, at tight nipples, at ribs that shouldn’t be so visible, at abs and lower still. Derek just gasps and arches, a hiss through the nose and teeth biting at his lower lip. His fingers scrabble against the sheet as Stiles wraps a hand around Derek’s cock, hard and leaking against his trembling stomach. “It’s ok, right? Right?”

“Yes Stiles, fuck. Yes.”

“Because I can stop, if you want me to.” Stiles licks the tip of Derek’s cock and then pauses, eyes flickering up to Derek’s contorted face. “This is what I wanted to do to you, back then. All those years ago. Remember me asking? And what you said?” Stiles licks again, casually, like he could just stop at any moment and go cook them some eggs or something. No big deal.

Derek growls and yanks on Stiles arm, pulling him up and pushing him down on his back. Stiles falls with an oomph, surprised and a little pissed off.

“Hey. I was only jok–”

But it’s too late. Derek licks down Stiles chest, one long swipe, before taking his cock in his warm, sure hand and stroking it once, twice, swiping at the tip and back down again. Derek is mesmerized by Stiles’ body, at the man he’s become in the years he’s been away. He’s slim, slimmer than he should be, but corded with surprising muscle, sinew and hard bone under smooth skin. And the moles. He remembers those mole sprinkled across his neck and cheeks. They’re everywhere, though, down his chest and back, shoulders, thighs. Derek wants to trace them all, with his tongue and maybe his teeth.

“What are you looking at?” Stiles asks, and his voice sounds shy and unsure in the near dark, more like the teenager Derek remembers, the boy unaware of his beauty, his dangerous allure. Derek just shakes his head now, not sure how to respond. He kisses him instead, fully, softly, and Stiles kisses back, hands sliding up Derek’s back, nails out just a bit. It drives Derek mad, all of it, just being here with Stiles beneath him, skin and bones, angles and curves. He wants to devour him. He takes him in his mouth and the sound Stiles makes is human and animal combined and it’s perfect.

Stiles comes with a shout, hips twisting and back arching, shooting up across his stomach and Derek has never seen anything so beautiful. He kisses Stiles’ open mouth, lax lips and tongue, eyelids fluttering. Stiles recovers enough to reach down and grasp Derek in one sweaty, shaking hand, and moves it a bit awkwardly while they kiss and Derek has never felt anything so good.

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t—”

Stiles’ hand doesn’t stop, fingers pressing, sliding, his forehead hidden in the hollow between Derek’s chin and neck. Derek can feel lips there, hot puffs of breath, a few mumbled words. And he comes too, quickly, suddenly.

They lie together in the dark, breaths evening out. Stiles rubs at his thigh, a lazy movement, up and down, fingers kneading absently.

“Your leg,” Derek says, nodding in his direction. His voice is deliberate and casual, but his eyes are dark.

“What of it?” Stiles is grumpy now, despite the massive, wonderful orgasm. He doesn’t talk about his leg with anyone ever. He kneads his fingers against the flesh over and over. “Doctor, heal thyself, right?” he says when he catches Derek staring.

“I’m assuming you’ve tried.”

Stiles laughs. Derek wants to touch him. He doesn’t.

“What happened?” They’re speaking very quietly, lying close to each other

“The night…before my dad died. I went into the woods for the last time. Looking for Bittersweet, supposed magical healing powers. One more try, you know? He was getting better. He really was.” Stiles’ voice is steady, but Derek can hear his heart ratcheting up, can smell the anxiety rolling off him in nauseating waves. “I was preoccupied, clearly, haha. Not paying attention. I always pay attention out there because you know.” He waves a hand. “Supernatural things creeping around.”

“I remember.”

“You’re hilarious.” Stiles pauses. “It was a Jaculus.”

“A what?”

“Jaculus. A small dragon with venomous fangs? Likes to hang out in trees and jump down on unsuspecting victims?”

“I know what it is, Stiles. I just can’t believe there was one _here_. And that you actually survived it.” Derek runs a hand through his hair. His hand is trembling, Stiles notices. “People don’t generally…survive those.”

“Yeah. No kidding.” Stiles stretches his fingers, his leg, winces a bit. “It’s been a real laugh riot around here, I have to say. My memoirs are gonna be gold. Gold, I tell you.”

Derek wants to ask more. He wants to touch, he wants to heal, but Stiles has stopped talking now. He seems finished with the discussion and his mouth is on Derek’s mouth again and there’s no more talking for a while.

//

Grace bangs into the store at precisely 9:01, as she does every shift.

“Hey, boss,” she says.

“Hey Grace,” says Stiles. He doesn’t look up from his work.

“Hard at it already, huh?”

“You know it.”

“Hey Derek,” Grace says.

There’s a startled pause as Grace pulls out her apron that sorely needs a wash and ties it around her waist.

“Oh. Hi. Grace.” Derek nods and gives a small smile and awkward wave.

“You made it,” she says. She stands and stares at him, unblinking.

“Uh yeah. Yeah I did.”

She tilts her head a bit, steady and appraising in that way she has. It’s not unfriendly. In fact, Stiles realizes she looks rather pleased, in her own particular way.

“Ok then. What can I do to help?”

//

The work is slow, meticulous. Stiles swears a lot and tosses out attempts at an alarming rate, deeming parts of the six-stage potion sloppy or ineffective. He barks orders at Derek and Grace, calling their knife-work sloppy or lazy, their work ethic unprofessional.

“It’s going to be fine, Stiles,” Derek says, his voice quiet, oddly soothing.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles says. “It has to be perfect. We’re running out of time.”

He checks Derek’s pinch mark numerous times a day, his eyes dark and serious. He sends Grace home when the work is done for the day and drags Derek upstairs, full of nervous energy and something else Derek can’t name.

They sleep fitfully in the tremendous afternoon heat, air conditioner banging and thumping in the window. Stiles runs numbers by Derek, possible variations on what he’s already researched dozens of times. Derek lies on his side, sweating slightly, hand resting on Stiles’ hip. He says things he should have said a long time ago.

“I was so sorry to hear about your Dad. I liked him. I did. He raised a good son.”

Stiles smiles in the dim light. “He liked you, too. He was kind of pissed when you left.”

“He was?”

“Yeah. He got tired of trying to help me nurse a broken heart.”

Derek kisses him, soft on the mouth, then hard, harder, catches Stiles’ breaths and presses on his slightly sweaty collar bone. Stiles shifts under him, eyes dark and serious. Long fingers trail up and down Derek’s arms, neck, head, back. He bites his lip and swallows hard. Derek isn’t used to this Stiles, this man who is both so achingly familiar and so much more than he remembers.

“Your heart,” Derek says, head on his chest. “It’s racing.”

“Yeah. It’s fear.”

Derek goes still.

“I’m afraid,” Stiles clarifies.

“Of what?”

_Everything_ , Stiles thinks. Out loud he says, “I’m afraid I’m going to disappear. I’ll just disappear and no one will even notice.”

Derek is silent and completely still for so long Stiles wonders if he’s actually fallen asleep. Then he hears Derek shift in the darkness, clothes rustling, bones moving under skin as he turns. Then there’s a hand on his chest, over his heart, right over the spot where it’s beating a little too fast. Then there’s Derek’s voice, close to his ear, low and shaky and oh so sincere.

“I’d never let that happen.”

“Ok.” Stiles relaxes a tiny bit, heart slowing down a tiny bit. “I thought about this, sometimes. Doing this.”

“I never stopped.”

“Stopped what?”

“Thinking about you.”

Stiles nods. “Ok.”

//

On mornings when Derek is simply too tired to participate, Stiles and Grace compile ingredients and work silently in the heat, knives clicking, breaths audible.

“He’s sleeping,” Stiles says, in reply to Grace’s unasked question.

She doesn’t say anything.

“He’s the one who’s sick.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean you know?”

“I could see it. Smell it. It’s pretty obvious.”

Stiles looks at her. He hadn’t been able to tell at all. Derek had looked…well he looked beautiful, like he always did. Maybe a little thin, maybe a little tired, but who wouldn’t, doing the job he did?

Stiles stops chopping when his fingers start shaking.

“I don’t know if this potion is going to work. I’ve never done it before.”

“I know that.”

“It has to, though. It has to work. I can’t lose anyone else,” he says. “It’s too. Too much.”

“I know that, too.”

Then, finally, “I can’t lose _him_. I just found him again.” This last thing he says very quietly, so quietly he’s not sure she’s heard him.

She doesn’t say anything and they keep working, knives clicking against boards, breaths mingling in the small space.

“Then let’s make sure this works,” she says at last, after a long enough break that Stiles has to think for a minute what she’s referring to. He looks at her. Her head is still down, her fingers moving surely and quickly.

//

“Come on big guy,” Stiles says, slipping his satchel across his chest, slipping his feet into old sneakers. Derek is sprawled across the bed, hands resting on his chest. His eyes are closed but he’s not sleeping. He’s slept most of the day and darkness has fallen finally.

“Where are we going?”

“To collect herbs. I’m low on wild garlic and fennel.”

“Now?” Derek checks the time. “It’s past midnight.”

“Best time to do it.” Stiles glances at him. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I do this all the time by myself. It’s really no problem.”

Derek sits with a small groan, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “No. No I mean. I’m coming. Of course I am.”

It’s a short drive to the edge of the woods. Stiles parks, grabs his small flashlight and satchel, locks the doors behind them. The path is familiar, even in the total darkness. Stiles leads with Derek so close behind Stiles can feel his heat, his breath on the back of his neck.

“There’s magic out here, Stiles.”

“I would think so.”

“No, I mean. Dark magic.”

“Well, yes.”

“You come out here alone?”

“Regularly.”

“And…you feel safe?”

Stiles’ laugh is harsh, dry and forced out of him. “Derek. I haven’t felt safe in about 10 years, dude.”

He gathers his supplies with quick, sure fingers, shoves them in the burlap pocket of his satchel while Derek stands guard — Stiles huffs back a laugh — and they head back to the car, Stiles in the lead again. Halfway there, his foot catches an exposed root and he goes down, hard, hands scrabbling at dirt, thigh screaming. Derek makes a shout of surprise, loud in the quiet, hands finding Stiles’ back, shoulders, pulling him up quickly.

“I’m fine. Let go.”

Derek does with reluctance, hands hovering at Stiles’ back.

“I’m _fine_ , Jesus. I don’t have supersonic werewolf vision or whatever. Plus, clumsy.”

The rest of the walk back is slow, Stiles’ teeth digging into his lip with each painful step. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him but he stays mercifully quiet.

There’s one wretched moment when Stiles is certain Derek is going to try to _carry him up the stairs_ , but he keeps his hands balled in fists at his side, following so closely behind that Stiles’ heels hit Derek’s knees. Stiles falls onto the bed at last, face a grimace of pain. He kneads his thigh. Derek watches him, face blank.

“Have you tried Benzoin?” he asks. “Healing properties. I used it on someone who’d been inadvertently poisoned by—”  
“Yes.”

“How about Lemon Balm with Wood Betony? I—”

“Yes.”

“Ok. What about—”

“I’ve tried everything, Derek.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Everything all of it.”

There’s a maddening pause. Stiles is scared to look.

“How about—”

“Derek yes!” Stiles shouts without meaning to. He clenches his fists and lowers his voice with effort. “I’m sorry. But yes. I have tried everything. It’s. It’s ok. It is what it is. I live with it. I’ve _been living with it_ for two years. I manage. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says and his voice is flat.

Stiles nods.

“You…live with it.”

Stiles glares. “Yes, Derek. I live with it. I don’t have much choice at this point. Unless you happen to have a saw handy? Could take it right off, right? Tit for tat?”

Derek doesn’t even flinch. “Sure. I carry one in my bag with me everywhere I go.”

“Why do you even care? Is this some sort of pride thing? Have to fix Stiles before you head off?”

Derek doesn’t even both to reply to those questions. “When have you ever just lived with anything, Stiles? Ever?” He moves closer to the bed.

“Look. No offense, or maybe much offense, really, but you haven’t been here. You have no clue what’s gone on or what I’ve been through or what I’ve battled or who I’ve battled with. So for you to just waltz back on in and actually question my life choices or, I don’t know, mock how I’m living—”

“Stiles, I’m not mocking you for fuck’s—”

“Or like, assume that you know better—”

“I’m not assuming anything! I’m just trying to—”

“You haven’t been here! You don’t know!” Stiles can hear his voice rising in pitch and hysteria.

“I’m trying to _help_ you, Stiles. That’s it. That’s all I’m trying to do. I actually do that for a living, you know? I help people. I heal them.” He takes a breath. “I’m pretty good at it, too. Just like you. And you’re helping me, you stubborn ass, so why don’t you let me at least try—

“No.”

“What are you so scared of?” Derek says and his voice is getting louder, too. Stiles can tell he’s trying to control it but it’s a losing battle in the face of Stiles’ infamous stubbornness.

“Didn’t we have this conversation already? Everything!” Stiles shouts. “You name it, I’m scared of it. And whatever you have in mind, it won’t work! You can’t heal me, Derek. Believe me. I do this for a living, too, remember? I research. I’ve read every book and journal and article in my library. I have a pretty impressive stash of herbs and magical potions at my disposal. I have tried it all.”

“Have you tried this?” Derek lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers. Stiles stares at him and for one horrific moment thinks he means _masturbation_ , to which the answer is _yes, obviously_ , until understanding blooms in his face.

“No, I haven’t Derek. No magical lupine healing. Oddly enough I don’t have a lot of spare werewolves lying around these days.”

Derek puts his hands down, swallows hard.

“I could—”

“No,” Stiles says, his voice quiet and calm. “You really couldn’t.”

He slips off the bed, staggers to the kitchen, flips the switch and lets the 4th Piano Concerto in G fill the room, thin and tinny and filling all the spaces where any further unasked and unanswered questions lie in wait.

//

They go on because that’s what they do and they’re good at it.

Stiles holds Derek down in the dark, spreading kisses up and down his chest, hips, legs and knees. He turns him over and kisses his neck, his back until Derek is trembling beneath him. Their hands find each other, hard and gasping and they finish each other off, wet and sloppy or hard and quick with a shout.

“Two more days,” Stiles whispers. “It’s almost done.”

“Yes,” Derek says but he doesn’t say anything else.

Two days, Stiles thinks. Two more days. The full moon. Then Derek will be healed. 

And then he’ll leave.

Again.

//

Derek hovers as Stiles peers and pokes and prods. The Pinch Potion is nearly the right colour, sort of cross between bile green and snot yellow, but there’s something not quite right. Something unfinished. He checks his notes again and again.

“Look. After this is…done.”

Stiles looks up. He waits.

“Have you thought about.”

Stiles waits some more.

“Coming with me. Even just for a little while.”

Yes, yes he has.

“No,” he says. “I haven’t.”

“Well, you could, you know. Come with me.” Derek says this in a rush, then stops, like he’s unsure, not of his offer, but of the response.

“What if the potion doesn’t work?” Stiles says, instead of answering.

“It’ll work, Stiles. I trust you.” He stops. “But, even if it doesn’t, I still have to go back, sort things out. And. I want you to come. With me.”

“I can’t go, Derek.” Stiles turns away and fiddles with things that don’t need fiddling with. His heart lurches. Derek must hear it.

“Won’t go.” Derek says this so quietly Stiles almost misses it. 

“The store, Derek. The work. The spells. I actually do help people here you know. I don’t have to be gallivanting around the globe in order to do some good.”

“I’m going to ignore the sarcasm, as always,” Derek says but his voice has gone funny. “And, I know. Don’t you think I know? I’ve seen it Stiles. All the good you do here. Of course I know.”

“Ok then.” Stiles shrugs. Case closed.

“It’s just.” Derek huffs out a sigh, short and hard. He’s looking out the window. He won’t look at Stiles.

“Just what.”

“Don’t you think you need a break? Deserve a break? Even for a little while?” This is quiet, too, and a little bit sad and a little bit pleading and Stiles swallows hard in response. “You’ve been here all this time, doing so much for everyone.” He pauses. “If you won’t do it for me, or you, do it for the work. Your knowledge would be invaluable.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“After. After you’re done dragging me around, introducing me to all the famous healers and showing me off and we get sick of each other’s company, because you know it will happen, then what?”

There’s barely disguised hurt in Derek’s face now. Stiles knows he’s put it there. “You don’t know that would happen. You…don’t. And, we’d figure it out. Whatever it is we’d figure it out.”

Stiles tries a new tack. “And what do I do with this place then, just close up? Put a sign on the door that says Gone Fishin’ and leave everyone in the lurch?”

“Like anyone just shows up here, Stiles. How many customers have actually walked in in the past two weeks? Besides, Grace is perfectly capable of looking after it for. Well, for a while. However long.”

“I can’t leave this responsibility with a teenager. That would really make me an idiot.”

“She’s not a teenager, Stiles,” Derek’s cheek twitches, like he’s holding back a smile. “She’s almost 21.”

Stiles stops. She is? Huh.

“Whatever. Anyway it’s not just age. It’s—”

“Experience, right. And she’s been with you for more than a year now, right? And from what I’ve seen in the short time I’ve been here, you trust her with a hell of a lot. You trust her with _my life_ , apparently, because she’s helped with the potion more than I have.”

Stiles slams a palm down on the table. “You can’t just show up here and expect me to.” He cuts himself off. Derek waits.

“Expect you to what?” he asks.

“Care. Change. Just because you want me to.”

Derek crosses his arms tighter. “Right. Got it.” He looks down, then back up. “So you can’t go and I can’t stay.”

“Looks like it, big guy.” All the spit has dried up in Stiles’ mouth and his heart is trying to climb up through his windpipe.

Derek unclenches his body. “I’m…heading out for a bit.”

“Now?” Panic prickles under Stiles’ skin. It’s already late afternoon. “Full moon tonight, Derek,” he says, as if Derek needs reminding. “You need to drink it just past midnight, when it’s at its full efficacy.”

“I know. The full moon is exactly why I need to get out of here for a bit.” He lets his shoulders roll and fall, flexes his fingers. “I need to…run.”

“Away?” Stiles says before he can apply his filter.

Derek just looks at him. “Are you talking about me or you?” He smiles then, and it’s gentle. “I’ll be back in time.”

And then he’s gone.

Stiles stands still for a full minute, hands resting on the worn, scarred cutting board, breath rattling in his chest. Then he shakes his head and grabs his notes. There’s one last thing he needs to get, one more ingredient, not officially on the list, but one he’s discovered in his extensive research this will help, will make the potion just that much more potent and effective, if he can just gather it in time. He looks down at his scrawled addendum, grabs his bag, leaves.

_AVENS_ , he’s written in the margins of his open notebook. _Exorcism. Purification. Love._

//

The woods are the darkest he’s ever seen, a solid inky black without even a moon to light the path he knows is there, a path he’s followed a hundred times before. The August air is hot and close, thick and heavy, crowding up against his lips and face. He blinks and blinks, tries to clear his vision, tries to calm his breathing and his heart rate. The forest floor is packed hard but uneven. Were there always this many exposed tree roots? He shuffles along slowly, feeling his way, going by memory where he can, but the sky is gone and his senses are messed up.

That’s when the cat decides to attack. A fucking Cactus Cat, to be precise, and goddamn his life and these woods and creatures with fangs and now _thorns_ hell bent on trying to maim him. Because this is Stiles’ life and this is his luck every time he decides to try to save the life of someone he loves, apparently. The shrieking is what gives it away first, then the light, followed by the immediate stabbing pain as thorns slice through his clothes, his arms, his chest. Light, shallow cuts, nothing life-threatening yet. But he twists and turns, arms flailing, heart pounding, feet stumbling and then, of course, he’s falling, head slamming hard on something below, a rock, a root, who knows. He supposes it doesn’t really matter what he’s landed on. But before everything goes black he really hopes someone finds his body and he hopes that Derek drinks the potion anyway and maybe, just maybe misses him, just a little bit.

//

“Stiles.” Stiles opens his eyes and knows he’s probably dead because his dad, John Stilinksi, is sitting on the fallen log across from him, watching him with a deep love and utter fondness. 

“Dad,” he says. He sits up in a clearing that isn’t quite so dark anymore, which is good because he can see his Dad’s face. They stare at each other.

“Can…can I touch you?” Stiles says. His voice sounds very loud in his ears. John smiles and shrugs.

“You can try, I guess.”

They both stand then and walk to each other. Stiles’ breaths are very loud and his heart beat seems to fill all the air around them. He swallows hard and reaches one hand out, touches his Dad’s arm. It’s solid…ish. Cold, misty, but solid enough to hug. So Stiles does, hard. John hugs back, arms cold across Stiles’ back. Stiles doesn’t want to let go but he has so many things to ask, too.

“I’ve…missed you. So much.” Stiles’ voice gets stuck in his throat. He wants to talk but he’s not sure he even can. He stares at his Dad’s face, every line, every spot. He doesn’t want to let go.

“Oh, Stiles,” John says. He smiles. “You have no idea.”

“I tried so hard. So hard to help.” He feels like he may be crying but there aren’t any tears. His body feels like it’s not his, actually, like it might be thin and floating, separate, apart. He’s moving further and further away from the woods and his store and his apartment, his life.

From Derek.

“I know you did. I know, believe me. You tried so hard but it was time for me to go.” John touches Stiles’ face. It’s cold. Or maybe Stiles is just cold. He’s not sure anymore.

“Is it time for me, too?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t feel any particular way about it, but it would be kind of sad, to die so young. He actually really wanted to see if the potion worked on Derek’s bite.

Derek.

His Dad is shaking his head, no, not yet. “You’ve been alone for a long time, “ his Dad says, as if reading his thoughts.. “I know what that can do to a person. I know better than most. You have so much love to give, Stiles. It’s ok.”

“What’s ok?”

“To be happy.”

//

When Stiles wakes up again, he’s dying. He can feel it in his bones, in his sliced skin, in the slow, steady ebb of blood from his chest, his back, his neck. He sits with a low, long groan. The cat is long gone and Stiles is alone in the dark in the middle of the woods. There is no light, no moon, no path. Stiles struggles to sit, his bag sliding off his shoulder, supplies scattered under his fingers. Can he walk? He shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. Everything hurts. He can feel wetness in his hair, down his neck, on his chest. He pushes his hands against his chest, feels the tattered shirt there and the skip of his heart, the jag of his breathing. He thinks of his Dad, waiting for him, but not waiting. Not yet. Not for a long time, he hopes. He thinks of Derek, waiting somewhere else, maybe. He pushes himself to his feet, his thigh screaming in agony, propelling him forward he hopes, in the right direction. He staggers through the woods for hours, it seems. His breath pulls in his chest. Something is dripping in his eyes but he’s not sure if it’s blood or sweat. He might be crying, but again, he’s not quite sure. His leg is on fire. He won’t die in these woods, alone, in the dark. He won’t. He fucking refuses. He won’t do that to Derek.

He realizes he’s saying these things out loud and he smiles. His face hurts.

It’s the broken sweep of lights that brings him back. He’s been walking for hours. He’s been walking for five minutes. There are twin circles of lights just ahead of him. He wonders if it’s an alien spaceship because it’s Beacon Hills and anything is fucking possible, apparently. But then he hears his name. Someone is calling his name and he knows that voice. He’s never forgotten that voice. He’s pushing through branches and breaking through underbrush and he’s standing in the blinding circle of light. He can’t see. There’s blood pounding in his ears and there’s his name being shouted over and over.

And then there’s Derek, right in front of him, running, stuttering to a stop just inches away, hands raised like he’s terrified to touch. He’s backlit by bright lights, and Stiles has never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

“Hey,” he says and his voice sounds garbled. “Fancy meeting you here.” He sways on his feet. “Aren’t you a sight for sore—”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, his voice a low, desperate growl. He grabs Stiles’ hands, stares down at them, leans down a bit and _smells_ them. Stiles follows his frantic gaze. Oh. They’re red. Because they’re covered in blood. His blood. Right. The thorns.

“All 10 friends, present and accounted for, thank god.”

“What happened? What did this?”

“Had a little…encounter…in the woods.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again and his voice is shaking as much as his hands. Stiles can feel the vibrations running up and down his arms.

“Derek,” he says and tries to smile. He feels kind of happy, despite everything, despite all the gore. First, he saw his Dad and now he’s found Derek. Or rather, Derek’s found him, but regardless, Derek is right here in front of him. He didn’t leave, despite the shitty things Stiles was yelling at him…when was that? “How long was I in there?” he asks. But Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t answer because he’s leaning over and scooping Stiles up in his arms.

Then he’s moving. They’re both moving because Derek has picked him up in shaking arms and they’re running to Stiles’ car, which is parked and idling at the edge of the woods. 

“I thought it was an alien spaceship,” Stiles says as Derek bundles him into the passenger seat. Derek doesn’t answer him. “Which I guess would make you an alien.” Derek doesn’t answer him. The door slams shut and then Derek is sliding ungracefully into the driver’s seat, feet and hands fumbling as he puts the car into gear and backs up, tires tearing at grass and dirt. “But you could be an alien, I suppose,” Stiles continues, like they’re having a conversation. A sane conversation. “You’re like unearthly. In your attractiveness. And you like to _experiment_ on me. With your _probes_.” Stiles is trying to waggle his eyebrows in a suggestive manner but that just hurts. His voice is slurred. He can hear it. Derek still doesn’t say a word. He’s probably too busy breathing. Derek’s hard and heavy breathing fills the entire car. They’re driving very fast. Things get black for a bit and then they’re grey and red around the edges and Stiles is looking up at the ceiling of his apartment. There’s lots of loud footsteps and things banging and falling. In the other room, it sounds like an entire drawer of silverware and maybe a few dozen glasses have been dropped from a great height.

“Hey boss,” and oh, there’s Grace. Grace is there, her tired, pinched anxious face hovering over his.

“Hey Grace,” says Stiles. “Hard at it already, huh?”

“You know it,” she says and her eyes are shiny, like she’s about to _cry_ , which Stiles finds partly touching and partly ridiculous.

Then there’s a lot of movement and noise and Stiles can’t keep track of anything.

“How did you find me?”

“Derek came back and you were gone and he ended up driving around for an hour before he finally called me,” says Grace. She sounds mad, but only just.

“How did _you_ know where I was?”

“Because I’ve been working with you for a year, Stiles?” She gives him a look like, _Seriously?_ and he closes his eyes. “How many times have you high-tailed it to the woods when you’ve been upset?”

She lifts the tattered remains of his shirt while Derek grasps his hands and takes some pain. Grace wipes and disinfects and they mutter to each other and wrap and tape and wipe some more and Stiles drifts hazily in and out of consciousness. He knows there’s something very important he needs to tell them, tell Derek, but it’s muzzy and soft and the pain is so much better than it was.

When he comes to again, he’s on his bed and it’s dark and quiet and Derek is sitting next to him. Even in the dark he can see the shape of his face, the taut pull of his lips and eyebrows. He looks stricken. He looks mad as hell.

“You can’t do that.” Derek’s head is lowered and his voice is even lower.

Stiles is woozy and confused. He needs clarification “Do what?”

“Leave. You can’t. You can’t do that.” He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment. “You can’t leave. Leave me. Right? Ok? That’s. That’s not allowed.”

Stiles looks at him.

“I don’t want to live in a world without you in it.”

Ah.

Derek grips one hand, hard. It kind of hurts.

“You can’t _run away_ , Stiles.”

“I didn’t run away. I had a very valid reason for leaving, in fact.” Then Stiles remembers. He remembers. How could he have forgotten? “The potion. You need to drink it now. Right now. It’s ready.” He tries to sit up. “Bring it to me. And my bag. Where’s my bag?”

Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, holds him still. “I’ll get everything. Hang on.”

Stiles hands him the small violet bottle, the one they’ve been labouring and fighting and sweating over for two weeks. He uncorks it and adds a small piece of the Avens he managed to hang on to despite _thorns_ and _shrieking_. Derek takes it, holds it in trembling hands. He looks at Stiles. Stiles looks back.

“Do it,” he says.

Derek licks dry lips and nods, quick, decisive. He sniffs it. Grimaces. Takes a breath .Gulps it, one two three swallows, throat working. Stiles watches, mesmerized, terrified.

“Ok, then,” Stiles says.

Derek puts the bottle down, curls up next to Stiles, his head under his chin, hands between their chests.

“Now what?” he says.

“Now we wait.”

//

When he awakes again, hours and hours later, Derek is perched on the edge of his bed. He’s smiling. His eyes are clear and calm and he looks…fuller, more alive. Stiles grabs his arm, pulls it close, examines his wrist. It’s clear, unmarked. Healed. He grins at Derek, wide and open. Derek grins back.

“My turn,” is all he says. His hands are hovering over Stiles’ bad leg, over the thigh, bare and vulnerable. He’s watching Stiles.

“I wanted to wait for your permission,” he says.

“Derek,” Stiles says. He’s so very tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of arguing. Tired of waiting. “It won’t work. I told you. I’ve tried everything.”

“Then you won’t mind, right? If I just try.” Derek pauses. “I’m pretty good at my job.”

Stiles’ thigh is bare and it looks like any other thigh, except for the two indentations, small and barely noticeable, where the Jaculus fangs sunk in deep so long ago. Derek’s fingers are hovering just over the skin, his gaze so focused and so intent, weight heavy on purpose.

“Let me _try_ ,” Derek says, voice low in the dim room. Stiles sighs. He reaches out. His hand is heavy bandaged. Huh. He reaches out and touches one of Derek’s hands.

He opens his heart and lets the hope in.

//


	3. Days Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles _understands_ that leaving is hard. He understands because Stiles always understands. Leaving is hard, got it. Check.
> 
> But late at night, alone in the dark in the quiet with the shadows, alone with his thoughts and his shallow, slightly panicked breathing, he also _understands_ that it’s always _harder_ for the people left behind.

_Life is not a love song that we like_   
_We're all broken pieces floating by_   
_Life is not a love song, we can try_   
_To fix our broken pieces one at a time_

//

It works. Of course it works.

//

The real heat of the summer settles in just as Derek and Stiles start to heal. “Dog Days,” Stiles is fond of saying, whispering into Derek’s ear just to make him laugh, usually just after they’ve both come. The colour has returned to Derek’s skin and the spark to his eyes. He’s stronger, sleeps better and deeper, curled up behind Stiles’ back, breath huffing against the back of Stiles’ neck and the fine hairs there. His fingers curl into Stiles’ hip, twitching while he dreams.

The heat becomes a living stifling thing, battering against the air conditioning that squeals and clanks in protest. They spend their days curled together in bed, or in the cool of the woods, and their evenings on the rooftop. Stiles makes dinner and cold drinks. He refills the ice cube trays repeatedly. The sit in their chairs, hands clasped, swinging gently. They don’t talk much. Stiles mends. Derek heals.

Every day he’s stronger.

//

Stiles is fond of the word salve. It’s amazing how many times a day he can work it into a conversation.

“It has more than one meaning, you know,” he says as Derek tap tap taps on Stiles’ laptop. “An ointment, obviously, but also like, soothe. Like when I _salve_ your wounded werewolf pride.” Derek doesn’t respond, but his lips twitch. Stiles takes it as a win.

“Where’s the salve? I need my salve,” he shouts as he comes running down the stairs, fast and furious, both legs slamming down with equal force, no limp in sight. Derek is smiling at him unabashedly at the bottom, and it takes a moment for Stiles to realize why and he looks almost shy. “Yeah, werewolf, you’re amazing. I admit it. Now where’s my goddamn salve?”

“Can you pass the salve, darling?” Stiles asks from where he’s languishing on the bed and Derek does, and then applies it to Stiles’ wounds himself, gently, so gently, that Stiles has to blink hard and look away. “What the hell rhymes with salve, anyway? Halve? It should, but it totally doesn’t, what the hell?”

//

Stiles fucks Derek and lets Derek fuck him on the hot summer nights. The battered window air conditioner rattles just above their groans and bitten off shouts. Fingers in shoulders, ribs. Skin sliding against skin, sweat dripping onto sheets. When they’re done, Stiles strips the sheets off the bed and roots around in the closet for fresh ones, replaces them with Derek’s help. Then they fall onto the cool bed and do it all over again.

Derek rides Stiles, or the other way round. Derek’s hand smoothing up and down Stiles’ side, holding him in place, hips bucking and head thrown back. Stiles has never seen anything quite so beautiful. Derek comes with a shout, low and guttural, then grins at him, slow and lazy.

“Again,” he slurs against Stiles’ chest. “Again.”

Stiles can never refuse.

“Remember,” Derek says as he thrusts, and thrusts again. “Remember.”

“Have you met me?” Stiles says, head thrown back, mouth half open on a groan. “It’s all I do.”

“Remember _me_ ,” Derek clarifies, pleading, and Stiles says yes. He always says yes to Derek, whose rebound time seems to shorten with each go.

Every day he’s stronger.

//

Derek is dozing late when Stiles slips out of the apartment. He’s low on mullein and a trip to the woods is exactly what he needs right now. He follows his well-worn familiar path, satchel slung over one shoulder. It’s a familiar gathering spot, hands feeling along the dense forest floor. He plucks several leaves, tucks them into his bag. He wanders a bit further, scrapes some fungi from the trunk of a Betony tree. His feet make no sound on the forest floor. All he can hear is faint wind and the sound of his own breathing. He could be the last living creature on earth right now. He tilts his head back and looks up. He fights an impulse to just keep walking, deeper and deeper into the darkness, walking until what? Until he can’t be found?

He turns and walks back.

He slips into the storefront, jangle of bell, door closing behind him. Derek looks up from the small desk, eyes wide, a book held loosely in his hands.

“I woke up and you…were gone,” he says. Stiles looks at what he’s holding. Derek’s journal.

Derek closes it but keeps staring down at the cover. He holds it loosely in his hands, which are trembling, Stiles notices idly.

“You read it, then,” Stiles says, to say something. It’s getting dark, too dark to read, he thinks, but then he thinks, oh yeah. Werewolf Vision. It’s funny how he’s forgotten some things. It’s good then, that he’s written it all down.

“I finished it,” Derek says. He doesn’t say anything else so Stiles starts blathering.

“Once I started I couldn’t stop, you know? It just all came pouring out. One after another. I’ve never written like that in my life. Sometimes I just had to close to store during the day and go upstairs because I had to. At first I thought it was some kind of spell, forcing me to write about all of you, but after a while I realized no. It just needed to be done and I was the one who needed to do it.” Stiles says all of this into the gathering darkness. He says these things instead of saying what he really wants to say: _So what did you think?_

Derek doesn’t respond but Stiles can feel him thinking, can feel the words building and rumbling behind his lips and he’s not ready yet, so he barrels on.

“I mean, I don’t know if anyone is even going to care, down the road, you know? I’m only guessing here, but like I said, I couldn’t _not_ do it. I couldn’t stop writing. I wrote about everyone and then. And then.” He stops suddenly because he feels suddenly dangerously close to crying and he won’t do that. Not here. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “And then I realized I hadn’t written about you yet. So then I did. I mean, it was late, compared to the others. It’s not even done. I haven’t touched in like. Months. I guess I should update it now, huh?” He laughs but it doesn’t sound like his normal laughter. Derek must realize this because his head turns in Stiles’ direction. From the corner of his eye Stiles can see Derek’s eyes glinting silver in the gloom. “So yeah. That’s what you’re holding right there. Your book. Journal. Whatever. The one about you. That I wrote. Am still writing. Yeah.” This time he actually bites his lip to keep from talking.

Still there’s nothing from Derek except breathing. Now it’s almost full dark in the small room and Stiles can barely make out their shapes. Stiles waits. He’s good at waiting. He really is. He could win awards at this point, or give classes. Online seminars. He wonders about the demand. Finally, Derek speaks.

“Your words, Stiles.” Derek starts and stops, considers, and starts again. “The way you write. The way you write about _me_.” His voice sounds funny, halting, and like something is caught in his throat. “It’s all so beautiful.”

“No.” Stiles can’t look at him. He still feels like he might cry and looking at Derek while he’s saying these things, these impossible things, will shatter all the control he’s barely clinging to. He bites his lip until he tastes the tang of blood and shakes his head. “I’m not a writer, Derek.”

“Yes.” This word, this one word comes out quietly, but fiercely, and Derek reaches over and takes his hand, catches it, tangles their fingers together and squeezes, hard, like it means something. “Yes, you are.”

//

Stiles watches Derek from the corner of his eye in the days that follow. Watches Derek as he writes in his notebooks, taps on his laptop, sending emails, making preparations.

Getting ready to leave.

//

Derek pushes his face into Stiles’ neck and breathes in and out. Stiles feels a wetness there but he’s not sure if it’s sweat or tears. Stiles blinks over and over until his eyes are dry and clear. He pushes against his sternum, hard. He feels too much so much with Derek sprawled against him, acres of bare skin on his own skin. He wraps his arms around Derek, feels all of his body against his own. He presses open mouthed kisses along Derek’s collar bone, slick with sweat, and up the side of his neck. He kisses his cheek his forehead his brow the ridge of his nose one eyelid.

“Stiles.”

“I remember everything,” Stiles whispers. “Don’t worry. And in case I forget, I’ll write it all down.”

//

On the second anniversary of John Stilinski’s death, Grace takes Stiles to the cemetery. She drives. Stiles didn’t know she knew how to drive. He realizes there’s a thousand things about Grace he doesn’t know because he’s never bothered to ask. He wonders if she’d tell him if he did.

They stop at Heather’s grave first and Stiles stands back and waits and watches while Grace places a fresh bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots on the grass. Her head is bowed and Stiles hears faint murmuring. Then she turns and looks at Stiles. She nods and he nods and they walk.

“What were you and Derek whispering about earlier?” Stiles asks as he pulls stray weeds from around his parent’s headstone. “All, week, as a matter of fact.”

“What?” Grace sounds like she always does, sort of monotone and quiet, but Stiles hears the slightest hitch in her voice.

“Oh, you know. Heads together like gossip mongers, giggling like little kids, then him taking off for parts unknown.”

Grace frowns, pretends to think. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should ask _him_.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes.

“So don’t tell me, then.”

“I won’t,” she says, completely unconcerned. But she smiles, just a bit. Stiles smiles, too.

They walk back.

//

Even with the ancient, rattling air conditioner, the late summer heat becomes oppressively hot. It’s a sleepless night filled, for Stiles at least, with strange, discordant dreams, dark images, planes falling from the sky. He kicks the single sheet off his sweating body, moves as far away from Derek and his furnace skin as he can. When Derek moves inevitably closer in his sleep and reaches out for him, Stiles relents. He can’t not. He doesn’t sleep.

He is, of course, cranky in the morning.

“What’s wrong with you?” Derek asks.

“What’s wrong with _you_?”

Derek sighs with his entire body and clenches his fists.

“I just meant. You look…tired.” 

“ _You_ look tired.” Derek doesn’t look tired. Not anymore. Derek is now the very picture of health and beauty. He could easily front the modelling campaign of any top designer in the world. Stiles kind of hates him in that moment.

“So don’t tell me, then,” Derek says at last.

“I won’t,” says Stiles, but he doesn’t smile at all.

//

Grace watches him watch Derek. He can feel her eyes on him, can feel her listening. Three days before Derek is scheduled to leave, he comes down early, before anyone is awake, before the town is awake, he’s sure, wiping sleep from his eyes and the aches from his bones. There’s a book of poems on his desk, slim, small. A sprig of thyme marks a page. He opens it and reads.

_“To live in this world_   
_you must be able_   
_to do three things:_   
_to love what is mortal;_   
_to hold it_   
_against your bones knowing_   
_your own life depends on it;_   
_and, when the time comes to let it_   
_go,_   
_to let it go.”_

//

Two days before Derek leaves they’re lying together in Stiles’ bed, naked, entwined. The air conditioner rattles. Derek isn’t thinking about anything in particular except for how Stiles’ skin feels under his hand, how his heart beats steadily, how he doesn’t smell of fear or loneliness quite so strongly these days. He kisses him, just a small kiss, not meant to start anything at all. Stiles leans into it immediately, though, pushing and pulling, aching with a need. He kisses Derek’s face, verging on frantic, Derek thinks, but he lets him and he doesn’t say anything, not when Stiles lies between his legs, or takes him into his mouth before he’s even fully hard, not when he slides into him, hard and fast, hips snapping, fingers gripping, mouth finding his, kissing, and Derek starts talking, he can’t help, saying “I love you, I love you,” over and over, until Stiles comes, his face falling onto Derek’s shoulder, breathing hard, mouth moving soundlessly. Derek feels wetness there and for a moment he thinks it’s tears but then he realizes it’s only sweat.

It is the Dog Days of August, after all. 

//

The night before Derek leaves they sit together on the roof. They don’t speak much. Neither knows what to say without starting an argument.

“The moon is waning,” Derek says for something to say.

“Hmm,” Stiles says. “Did you know, every day the heart creates enough energy to drive a truck 20 miles.”

“Hmm,” Derek says, smiling “Interesting.”

“In a lifetime, that’s equivalent to driving to the moon and back.”

“Wow,” says Derek.

“I know, right?” Stiles stays.

“Uh huh.”

“So, when you tell someone you love them to the moon and back, you’re telling them you love them with all the blood your heart pumps your whole life.”

Derek stops smiling and looks at Stiles.

Stiles nods and shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I dunno. Just something I read, a long time ago.”

//

_From the Journal of Derek Hale (80 pages, 8.5 inches by 11 inches, black, School Exercise Book)_

• Derek Hale is grumpy and unfairly attractive

• Stiles Stilinski fell in love with him when he was 17

• In the opinion of one Stiles Stilinksi, this was not too young to know what love felt like. He stands by that assertion five years later

The word “five” is scratched out and replaced by the number eight.

• Derek was Stiles’ first kiss. He knows he was not Derek’s first kiss, but that’s ok

What the reader should know: Derek was this super hot, super brooding mysterious character who liked to scare people but in reality was one of the bravest, kindest, softest people Stiles ever knew. He picked Stiles up and made him feel important, despite his human-ness and apparent lack of supernatural abilities. He loved with his whole heart but tried to hide it from pretty much everyone. Stiles saw him, though, right from the start.

Stiles loved Derek and Derek broke Stiles’ heart, even if he didn’t mean to. He left this godforsaken town, which Stiles completely understood but it hurt like nothing else at the time. People say loss and death is like losing a limb, but in reality it’s not like that at all. Derek was not Stiles’ limb and Stiles has had difficulties with limbs in the years since, so he knows of what he speaks. Losing Derek was like losing himself, at least for a while. He had found part of himself in Derek and he though Derek had found part of himself too, a human part, something that anchored and grounded him. When Derek left, Stiles soldiered on, but he honestly wondered if he’d ever fully recover.

It seems he never completely did. Of course, other bad things happened too, things that hurt and battered Stiles, but Derek meant more to him than he’d ever realized.

• Derek Hale is brave

• Derek Hale is strong

• Derek Hale is a survivor

• Stiles Stilinksi will survive too

Derek loved his family, his friends, his pack, even if he had trouble showing it. He may have even loved Stiles, just a little bit, despite the fact that Stiles was too young for him. At the time, anyway. Who knows what will happen in the future? If Stiles ever finishes writing this story you may be lucky enough to find out.

NEW ENTRY!

So Stiles recently retrieved this journal from its shelf after months of being unable to touch it. Derek Hale has made a surprise reappearance into Stiles’ small life and everything has changed. All those old feelings Stiles had years ago have come bubbling up, like some potion brewing. Derek, if you ever read this, you need to know a few things. I was terribly horribly in love with you then and I am now. 

• Years ago I told him I loved him to the moon and back. He didn’t know what it meant then

• He knows now

//

The night before Derek leaves he watches Stiles sleep. He lies on his side in Stiles’ small bed that smells of both of them now. It’s saturated. He briefly considers stealing the top sheet or a pillowcase, stuffing it in his bag but stops himself because it’s not only silly but kind of gross maybe. And Stiles probably needs it.

He reaches out, traces the lines of Stiles’ face with his finger, the upturned slope of his nose, he touches each mole, the fan of his lashes, the slightly lopsided hairline, the bow of his lips, loose and slightly parted in sleep. He feels little puffs of breath on each outtake. He leans in, close, closer, pressing his nose to Stiles’ neck, the line of his collarbone, the spot where his heart beats, below bone and skin and muscle. He counts the beats.

The sun comes up. He can see the faintest slants of light slipping in under the heavy curtains. He gives in and wraps his arms around Stiles’ still, heavy form, pulls him in close, pushes his nose into Stiles’ hair, quietly, desperately.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, followed quickly by, “Come with me.”

Stiles smiles a bit but doesn’t reply. There’s only one reply to that and they both know it and neither one will voice it.

//

Stiles takes him to the airport. They drive in complete silence, the entire hour-long drive. Derek looks out the window. Stiles grips the steering wheel and breathes. He just breathes and doesn’t think. He counts out beats, tries to match them to his heart, the blood in his veins.

He pulls up in front of the airport, those stupid drop off zones where you’re only allowed to linger for six minutes before someone official in an official looking uniform waves at you officially to move along. He lets the car idle. He jumps out and comes around the front of the car as Derek stands on the curb, staring at the building. People are very busy here, running in and out, hugging, crying, dragging children along by their wrists.

“Ok then.” Stiles says. His hands are shoved deep in his jean pockets. 

“Remember.” Derek says. He finally drags his eyes to Stiles’ face. His eyes are full of tears Stiles’ realizes. He’s crying. He wraps his arms around Stiles in a sudden, fierce painful hug. “Remember,” he says into Stiles’ ear. His fists dig into the small of Stiles’ back, once, twice. He sighs a shuddering breath. He pulls back. “If you change your mind,” Derek says. His voice sounds funny. Stiles looks at him. “If you change your mind ever. At any time. Just text me, ok? Just text me. Yes. _Yes._ And I’ll meet you anywhere. Anywhere in the world. Anywhere on this entire planet, ok? Just. Yes.”

If there was ever a time that Stiles was close to breaking down and crying, this was it. He stares at Derek. He memorizes the outline of his face, his jaw. The shape of his luminous glorious eyes. He nods. He doesn’t cry. Derek nods, and hefts his bag.

And then he’s gone.

//

Stiles drives home. He doesn’t think about the past six weeks. He doesn’t think about hands or mouths or rooftop gardens. He doesn’t think about anything at all except his hands on the steering wheel and his foot on the gas and the brake and the gas again. He doesn’t think about how his leg doesn’t ache anymore, not at all, not even after driving or walking or sleeping.

He parks his car and unlocks the front door of the shop, bell jangling above his head like it always does. He locks the door behind him. He doesn’t think about what plants need restocking. He doesn’t think about anything that needs watering or pruning. He goes up the stairs to his apartment. It’s dim, he realizes. It’s the first thought he’s had about anything. The air is flat with a slightly sour smell, like all the life has been sucked out of the small space. He stands in the middle of the room, at a complete loss. What now, his brain beats against his skull over and over and over. What now? What now?

There’s a small white envelope on his scarred kitchen table. His name is written on the front in a familiar, elegant script.

 

_HOW TO BE HAPPY_

_Hug your werewolf._   
_Love your werewolf._   
_Take long walks in the woods._   
_Listen to Bach. All of the Bach. ._   
_Kiss your werewolf. Werewolves like to be kissed often and thoroughly. And kissing leads to other things, that’s ok, too._   
_Love yourself. This is the most important part. You deserve it. You deserve all the good things in life. You deserve to be happy, too._

Stiles holds it in his hands and thinks What the fuck?

Then he thinks, Bach. All of the Bach.

Bach has fixed everything in the past and Bach will fix things now. He moves to the small, ancient stereo passed down to him from his dad. He flips the switch and waits for the familiar, soothing, steady strains of piano music that have always been there waiting for him, slightly tinny and small in the small room. Instead, Bach is everywhere. Stiles startles and then goes completely still as Glenn Gould’s The Goldberg Variations seems to fill all the space around him. Every single space around him is filled with the music, above and below, down through his head and out through his fingertips. It’s everywhere. He’s sure the entire world can hear it. For a moment he wonders if he’s dreaming, if somehow the entire six weeks was just a dream after all, Derek and the plants and the potion and the accident and his dad and everything, oh everything. But then he remembers: Derek’s project. Derek’s Super Secret Project that he must have worked on whenever Stiles was out of the apartment. Giggling and whispering with Grace, heads together, plotting and planning. Trips to town and the googling online. Stiles moves around the room, finding now the wires against the walls and tiny speakers mounted up high in corners, in the living room, into Stiles’ bedroom, the kitchen, the _bathroom_ for fuck’s sake. Bach is everywhere and it’s the most beautiful terrible thing Stiles has ever heard and Derek did it for him.

Stiles sits in the middle of his small, dim, sour-smelling dusty apartment with the rattling, dripping air conditioner chugging in the bedroom and he starts crying. He starts _sobbing_ and he can’t stop, great hitching, heaving sobs that hurt his entire body. He thinks about his dad and his mom and his friends. He cries for himself and the past five years. He cries for everyone who has lost someone and he cries big, snotty sobs and he actually feels like he might throw up and at first it hurts but then it feels good, so he keeps doing it. He cries until he’s cried out, exhausted, limp and soggy and red-face and snotty and curled into himself on the floor while Bach plays on and on and on around him. He falls asleep, curled up on his floor.

And that’s where Grace finds him.

When he wakes up she’s sitting next to his damp head, legs crossed, elbows on her knees, watching him.

“Hey,” she says. He blinks at her. His eyes feel swollen and kind of crusty. She smiles at him. It’s a sad smile but a knowing one, too. “Better now?”

“Define better,” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Grace says. “So. Derek’s gone.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Grace keeps watching him. “And this—” she makes a small gesture towards his prone body — “is because of that.”

“Yeah. Not entirely. But yeah.”

“The catalyst maybe.”

“Maybe.” Stiles tries to sit up. He can’t. He may never get up again and he’s ok with that at the moment. He sneezes. He has no snot left in him so it’s a dry sneeze. Grace sighs.

“So now what?” she says. And Stiles starts laughing. A real kind of soft little laugh, because really. Really.

“I don’t know.”

Grace tilts her head. “Well I know. I know what now. It was kind of a rhetorical question, but yeah. I know.”

“Do you.” Stiles keeps his voice neutral, keeps his heartbeat steady. “What, then?”

“You leave.”

“Leave.” Stiles repeats the small word like he’s never heard it before, which, really, has been the only word in his personal lexicon for five years. Leave. Leave. Left. Everyone leaves or has left. Left Beacon Hills, left their families, left him.

“Yes, Stiles. You leave. Go. Scram. Skedaddle. Get the hell out—”

“I can’t _leave_ , Grace.” Stiles feels some old anger building. Ah, his old friend. He pushes himself up into a sitting position. He feels wobbly, weightless, all that water gone. “I mean, I have a job here. I have work. I have—”

“You have me,” Grace says. She looks angry, too. Now that Stiles is paying attention, she’s fairly vibrating with it. Her fingers are clenched on her knees and her throat is working as she swallows. “In case you haven’t noticed – haha – I’m really capable at running this place on my own. Maybe not forever, but say for like, I don’t know, six months.”

“Six months?” Stiles says it with something akin to horror.

“We have this thing called technology now, Stiles. The internet, yeah? Texting. Emails. Skype. We can be in touch like every single day if that made you feel better. There are also these amazing inventions called _aeroplanes_ now—” she says it with three syllables — “and you could be back here, in Beacon Hills, from anywhere in the goddamn world, in a day, two at the most. It’s really really really possible for you to leave.”

It’s the most he’s ever heard her say in one go and he’s kind of stunned. Stiles doesn’t say anything for a while. His heart, his stupid traitorous heart is thudding and skipping and slamming around his chest like a wild thing. He presses one shaky hand there, attempting to tame it, calm it, shut it the fuck up. He sucks in a shaky breath, slowly. Grace never takes her eyes off him.

“You love him,” she says. It’s not a question.

Stiles can only nod. Yes, yes, yes, because it’s not a question.

“Hold it against your bones,” she says, quietly, but he hears her, and Bach. Always Bach. His mind quiets, his heart quiets. He presses hard against the bone of his chest, his ribs, his sternum, the skin above and the skittering, selfish muscle below.

“Why are you here?” Stiles ask her, curious, helpless.

“Because I couldn’t help someone I loved,” she says. “Same as you. But then you did. You helped Derek. You healed him. And now you get to heal, too.” She pauses. “Plus, The Full Moon will be here when you come back, if you choose to.”

“The Full Moon?”

“That’s what I’m calling this place because I’m tired of saying ‘the store where that sad quiet guy sells drugs’ when people ask where I work.” She tilts her head. “With your permission, of course.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it, exhales.

“Yeah. Ok.”

“Ok then,” Grace says at last, and puts her hands together, briskly, like it’s been decided, like a decision has been made, and Stiles smiles a bit, allows himself that, because yes, he supposes it has.

//

He takes three days to prepare. He makes two more trips to the woods, bringing Grace with him. They gather enough supplies to last a year, which Grace points out more than once.

“There’s enough here for a year,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry or frustrated or sarcastic, even, so Stiles ignores her, because he’s not sure what it implies, all these supplies. He’s not sure himself. They work side by side, in the silver moonlight, in the shadows and slices of light. Stiles brews and cuts and burns during the day. Sometimes Grace watches, learning, but usually she helps, fingers quick and nimble. Stiles cleans his apartment, wipes and washes and dusts and scours, tells Grace she’s welcome to stay here, if she wants.

She says she’ll think about it.

“Have you told him yet?” she asks on the second day of preparations. Stiles pauses, paring knife held tight in his fingers, a single bead of sweat dangling on the tip of his nose. He shakes his head, sweat flying somewhere off to the right.

Grace just nods and they continue on.

At night he updates his files, pages and pages of potions and recipes. Then he does the same for the written journals. Just to be safe, he tells himself. Technology is unreliable, after all. Best to have all the information in two separate places. Plus, it’s all burned into his brain at this point. So, three, just to be safe. He wears down a pencil and a half. His fingers ache. He can’t stop smiling.

Bach doesn’t stop playing for three days. Bach is everywhere, even in the shop, Stiles discovers. Wires running down the stairs, along the tops of uneven walls, little speakers everywhere. Grace never says a word about it, even as she sways with the sound, fingers tapping unconsciously against the cutting board.

He doesn’t sleep, but he dozes. He lies half-awake in the shadows of his bedroom, sprawled on a bed that still smells of Derek, of him and Derek together. All the curtains are still closed, it’s the one thing he can’t bring himself to do yet. The apartment is spotless now, ready for its occupant to leave scram skedaddle. When he does close his eyes he sees mountains and oceans, he sees forests and plains. He sees Derek. Always Derek.

//

He takes the journal down from the shelf, the empty one, the one he hasn’t been able to fill in at all. He sits down. He opens it. He begins to write.

_John Stilinski dies on an unfairly beautiful October afternoon, his unfairly beautiful heart finally giving out, giving up, moving on. There is no funeral because John expressly announced years ago that funerals were morbid affairs best left to the dead. After Claudia’s funeral he and Stiles both agreed they’d never subject one another to another one ever again. Instead, Stiles takes his Dad’s ashes on a hike, he walks and walks and walks, grasping at tree limbs when the pain is particularly bad, panting in the deep woods before he reaches his intended spot, the perfect spot. He sits in the near twilight and says goodbye, and lets his Dad go._

_He was a great man. His wife loved him and his son loved him even more._

_And now he can let him go, the way he wanted._

_He doesn’t cry. Not then, but he does. He cries. He learns to love again._

_He lets his dad go._

//

On the third day he wakes from a restless dream. His head is filled with images of trees and leaves, of broad expanses of smooth, rippling skin, of eyes the colour of sea grass. He can smell the woods, and musk, and something deeper underneath. He can hear his voice, his laugh, see the tilt of his head and the particular raise of his eyebrow. Stiles gets dressed. His bag is already packed. He’s not taking much, but then again, he doesn’t need much, where he’s going. He breathes and breathes and listens and listens. He swallows hard against whatever objections are forming in his own lying throat and straightens his shoulders. He’s ready.

He takes out his phone and sends a single text. He stares and watches and waits for the reply, which comes exactly 11 seconds later. He smiles. He smiles and smiles and can’t stop smiling. He wanders around his little apartment for a bit, touching the books and the empty glasses and the artifacts. He touches all these things and keeps looking at his phone, at the text he has received, the one that will start his life on a new and different path.

He waits.

//

_From the Journal of Stiles Stilinksi_

• Stiles leaves Beacon Hills on a beautiful day in early September, one of his favourite months because Autumn is coming and the heat is leaving, and sometimes, change is good

•He’s not sure when he’ll return and he’s not sure what will happen

• He’s ok with that

• This is the final entry

• For now

• He’s ok with that

• Oh, and he loves his werewolf

• And he deserves to be happy, too

//

On his last pass around the apartment he stops by the heavy curtain that covers the window that overlooks the town and everything that lies beyond. He takes one more look at his phone screen and smiles, soft and full of hope. Then he takes a last deep breath and pushes the heavy, dusty curtain to the side.

Then he opens the window and lets the light in.

//

_Song Lyrics from “Broken” by Lovely the Band_

_Poem from In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver_

_Poem from How to Be Happy, by Derek Hale_


End file.
